STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 


STORIES 

AND 

STORY-TELLING 


BY 


ANGELA  M.  KEYES 
;* 

HEAD  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH,  BROOKLYN  TRAINING 
SCHOOL  FOR  TEACHERS 


NEW    YORK 

D.  APPLETON   AND    COMPANY 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

ALL  the  stories  in  this  book  have  been  tested 
with  children.  Favorites  easily  available  in  other 
collections  have  been  omitted. 

The  seventy-five  or  more  very  short  stories, 
intended  to  help  young  children  to  express  their 
observations,  experiences,  and  fancies,  have  been 
included  at  the  request  of  many  teachers. 

The  writer  hopes  that  by  providing  the  busy 
teacher  with  "  tellable  "  stories,  she  may  help  to 
win  for  story-telling  the  dignity  of  established 
scholastic  place. 

APRIL,  1911 


266961 


CONTE  NTS 


PAGE 

STORY-TELLING    .....    ..........          i 

KINDS  OF  STORIES  TO  TELL  ...........        12 

•"•*.»• 

THE    PRINCIPLES    OF    THE    ART    OF 

TELLING  STORIES   ..............        15 

GETTING  THE  STORY  ..............     _JL*L 


TELLING  THE  STORY  ..............  33 

THE  CHILD'S  PART  IN  STORY-TELLING  ........  62 

STORIES      .....     .     ,    ..........     .  75 

THE  FAIRY  HORSESHOE  .....    A.  M.  K  .....  77 

THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  SAUSAGE      .    French  Folk  Tale  .     .  79 
THE    STORY    OF   THE    LITTLE    BOY 

AND  THE  LITTLE  DOG    .     .     .     .    A.  M.  K  .....  81 

THE    STORY    OF    THE   Two    CAKES 
THAT    LOVED    EACH    OTHER    IN 
SILENCE     .........    Hans    Christian   An- 

dersen .....  84 

How  THE  ROOSTER  BUILT  A  HOUSE 

OF  His  OWN  ........    A.  M.  K  .....  85 

THUMBELINA  .........    Hans    Christian   An- 

dersen .....  88 

A  VISIT  FROM  AN  ELF  .....    A.  M.  K  .....  101 

How  THE  CAT  GOT  ALL  THE  GRAIN    Eastern  Folk  Tale     .  103 

THE  TABLE  AND  THE  CHAIR      .     .    Edward  Lear    .     .     .  104 

THE  WONDERFUL  SHIP  .....    A.  M.  K  .....  106 

THE  CLEVER  GEESE  ......    A.  M.  K.    .     .     .     .  109 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  HAPPY  PRINCE Oscar  Wilde     .     .     .  no 

THE  DWARF  ROOTS'  STORY  OF  THE 

PUMPKIN  SEED A.  M.  K 121 

A  HORSE'S  STORY From  Anna  Sewell    .  126 

A  BEWITCHED  DONKEY A.  M.  K 130 

THE    STRAW,  THE    COAL,  AND    THE 

BEAN Folk  Tale    ....  136 

MOTHER  HOLLE Folk  Tale    ....  138 

TOM  THUMB English  Folk  Tale     .  143 

THE  Two  BROTHERS Folk  Tale    ....  158 

THE  WOOING A.  M.  K 162 

JACK-THE-GIANT-KILLER     ....    English  Folk  Tale     .  165 

THE  PIXIES'  THANKS A.  M.  K 167 

THE  CAT  AND  THE  PARROT   .     .     .    Eastern  Folk  Tale     .  170 

LAMPBLACK La  Ramee    ....  174 

LAZY  JACK .     Folk  Tale    ....  183 

THE  TIME  THAT  WILL  COME  AGAIN    A.M.  K 188 

THE   OWL'S  ANSWER  TO  TOMMY    .    From    Mrs.    Ewing's 

Brownies.     .     .     .  197 

THE  STORY  OF  COQUERICO     .     .     .    Spanish  Folk  Tale    .  204 

THE  SCARECROW A.  M.  K 209 

OEYVIND  AND  MARIT Bjornstjerne  Bjb'rnson  214 

BLUNDER Louise  E.  Chollet .     .  219 

THE  GOLDEN  PEARS Folk  Tale    ....  227 

SOME   VERY   SHORT   STORIES 237 


STORY-TELLING 


Witt)  \)i%\)  esteem  ana  full  of  respect  31  greet 
a  genuine  storyteller ;  toitlj  intense  gpatituDe 
31  grasp  t)im  by  tfce  IjanD. 

—  FROEBEL 


STORY-TELLING 

THE  school  is  joining  hands  with  the  children  for 
fuller  recognition  of  the  story  and  story-telling. 

Note,  by  the  way,  that  it  is  with  the  children.  In 
an  elder  day  grown-ups,  too,  yielded  themselves  to 
the  witchery  of  the  story.  But  printing  and  the 
book  banished  the  wandering  story-teller;  with  a 
little  progress  in  science  came  recoil  from  the  super- 
stitions and  absurdities  of  the  folk  tale ;  the  increas- 
ing complexity  of  life  bred  in  the  superficial  thinker 
contempt  for  the  unperplexed  nursery  fable;  the 
intellectual  pedant  found  it  distressingly  naive; 
pressure  of  affairs  robbed  the  busy  man  of  any 
leisure  for  it.  So,  among  peoples  advancing  in  civil- 
ization, the  grown-ups  gradually  left  the  story  more 
and  more  to  the  children.  And  the  children,  wise 
youngsters  that  they  are,  have  never  allowed  them- 
selves to  outgrow  it. 

Is  it  not  delightful  to  note  that  learning  is  bring- 
ing the  adult  back  to  the  story?  The  trend  of 
thought  to-day,  urging  him  to  look  to  the  natural 
beginnings  of  things,  is  taking  him  back  to  the 

3 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

story.  The  historian  searches  it  for  early  glimpses 
of  fact;  the  philosopher  sees  lasting  wisdom  in  it; 
the  literary  seer  marvels  at  the  truth  and  beauty  of 
fairy-tale  symbols  of  life;  the  busy  man  of  affairs 
accompanies  his  children  to  juvenile  drama  and 
nonsense  opera.  The  art  of  story-telling  itself  is 
again  finding  an  audience  among  men  and  women, 
as  well  as  children.  Best  of  all,  the  school,  direct- 
ing its  effort  toward  the  natural  development  of  the 
young  child,  is  pressing  the  educational  properties 
of  the  story. 

Reiteration  of  these  properties  now  is  timely. 
Psychology  is  throwing  clearer  light  on  the  educa- 
tion of  the  feelings  and  the  taste;  the  story  should 
be  helpful  here.  The  thoughtful  in  the  community 
are  urging  more  attention  to  the  spiritualizing  and 
humanizing  subjects  in  the  courses  of  study;  the 
story  belongs  in  this  class.  Other  favorable  present 
conditions  will  appear  as  the  merits  of  the  story  are 
briefly  set  forth. 

The  story  and  story-telling  will 

1 i )  Give  pleasure. 

(2)  Stir  and  direct  the  imagination. 

(3)  Arouse  and  direct  the  feelings. 

(4)  Cultivate  the  taste. 

(5)  Help  to  shape  thought  and  language 
mode. 


STORY-TELLING 

(6)  Stimulate  and  direct  potential  literary 
creativity. 

(7)  Serve  as  foreword  for  book-study  of 
literature. 

(8)  Give  knowledge  of  life. 

1 i )  The  story  will  give  pleasure.     Educational 
thought  is  growing  more  and  more  cordial  toward 
this  value.     Undisturbed  by  any  charge  of  "  soft 
pedagogy,"  it  finds  wholesome  pleasure,  not  merely 
relaxing,  but  constructive,  building  toward  physical 
health,  mental  brightness,  and  moral  virtue.     Here 
is  the  story's  opportunity.     Every  one  admits  it  is 
pleasure-giving.     The  stern-minded  among  us  must 
realize  that  this  is  its  deepest  educational  value.     It 
is  from  the  good  pleasure  the  child  gets  from  the 
story  that  will  ripen  good  taste,  good  will,  good 
effort,  and  all  the  other  goods  some  teachers  and 
parents  regard  as  more  substantial  merit.     Besides, 
joy  appears  to  be  here  to  stay.     To  attempt  to  take 
it  out  of  the  plan  of  things  is,  to  say  the  least,  short- 
sighted.     American    civilization    is    looking   hope- 
fully to  the  school  for  better  national  standards  of 
pleasure.    The  school  is  under  obligation  to  educate 
the  children  to  enjoyment  of  wholesome  pleasure. 

(2)  The  story  will  stir  and  direct  the  imagina- 
tion.    We  do  not  yet  grant  in  practice  the  impor- 
tance of  the  imagination.     We  do  not  purposefully 

5 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

exercise  it,  as  we  do,  for  example,  the  reason.  We 
say  glibly  that  imagination  is  at  the  root  of  the 
successful  man's  arrival  at  material  profit,  of  the 
explorer's  discovery  and  the  practical  scientist's 
invention,  of  the  poet's  song  and  the  philanthro- 
pist's vision  of  a  state  of  society  in  which  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  will  be  nearer  at  hand;  but  we 
give  little  or  no  training  to  the  imagination.  Here 
again  is  the  story's  opportunity.  Through  the  story 
the  interpretative  story-teller  may  give  the  imagi- 
nation consistent  exercise. 

(3)  The  story  will  arouse  and  direct  the  pupil's 
feelings.  The  school  to-day  is  emphasizing  the 
necessity  of  educating  the  heart,  the  climactic  third 
of  the  three  great  H's,  —  the  Head,  the  Hand,  and 
the  Heart.  And  psychologists  are  telling  us  that 
to  educate  a  child  to  be  kind,  unselfish,  filial,  rever- 
ent, gentle,  courageous,  good-tempered,  to  educate 
him  to  admire  goodness,  justice,  valor,  to  be  sen- 
sible of  beauty,  to  aspire  and  make  effort  toward 
excellence,  is  as  practicable  as  to  train  him  to  do 
or  to  make  something.  It  calls  for  more  delicate 
but  not  different  treatment;  working  not  by  dic- 
tation, but  by  magnetic  suggestion.  The  story- 
teller may  render  a  great  service  to  the  individual 
and  to  the  community  by  helping  to  form  right 
feeling-habit. 

6 


STORY-TELLING 

(4)  The    well-chosen   story    will    cultivate    the 
taste.     Psychology  is   urging  early  direction  also 
of  the  aesthetic  sense.    The  story-teller,  through  her 
own  joyous  response  to  beauty,  has  it  in  her  power 
to  awaken  and  direct  the  children's  appreciation  of 
beauty.     It  is  she,  too,  who  must  help  to  lay  the 
foundation  for  that  better  taste  in  novel  or  play 
that  America   eagerly  desires,   and   that  publisher 
and  playwright  say  they  stand  ready  to  satisfy  as 
soon  as  the  public  arrives  at  it. 

(5)  The   story    will   help    to    form    the    child's 
thought  and  language  habit.     As  this  is  the  value 
most  often  acknowledged  in  classroom  practice  — 
though  not  always  by  the  best  methods  —  it  is  not 
necessary  to  do  more  at  this  point  than  restate  it. 
Mastery  in  thought  and  language  is   far-reaching 
usefulness,   affecting  individual  growth  and  social 
harmony.     The  story,  because  of  its  easy,  more  or 
less  artless  composition  and  graphic  diction,  lends 
itself  to  starting  right  thought  and  language  mode. 

(6)  Story-telling    may    help    to    stimulate    and 
direct  potential  literary  creativity.     In  spite  of  its 
breadth  of  view  the  school  appears   insensible  to 
the  rights  of  children  born  creative.     The  array  of 
geniuses    recently    marshaled    by    a    Chicago    pro- 
fessor,  that   teachers   pronounced   hopeless    dunces 
and  in  some  cases  drove  from  their  classes,  should 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

set  the  school  thinking.  It  is  reaching  out  helpful 
hands  to  the  little  unfortunate  ones,  the  blind  and 
the  deaf  and  the  sick;  but  it  continues  to  dismiss 
the  divinely  commissioned  little  sister  or  brother, 
with  the  platitude  that  his  genius  will  survive  if  it 
be  sufficiently  sturdy.  This  is  a  specious  half- 
truth  unworthy  of  repetition.  It  is,  besides,  dis- 
crimination against  the  individual.  The  school  is 
not  meeting  its  obligation  to  all  the  children  of  the 
community.  It  will  not  do  to  lay  the  blame  to 
the  community's  "  commercialized  "  standards.  In 
spite  of  apparent  emphasis  on  the  useful  arts,  the 
community  would  not  lose  from  the  varied  web 
of  its  civilization  the  bright  thread  of  painting  and 
music  and  story.  Maturing  thought  is  convinc- 
ing it  that  the  fine  arts  are  finely  utilitarian.  Here, 
again,  is  the  story's  opportunity.  The  simple  mate- 
rials and  childlike  fancy  in  it  may  stimulate  gradu- 
ally and  naturally  play  of  the  creative  imagination. 
(7)  Story-telling  should  be  at  least  foreword  for 
book-study  of  literature.  The  thoughtful  teacher 
of  literature  to-day  finds  in  the  classic  story  all  the 
elements  of  her  material,  and  sees  in  the  child  lis- 
tening to  it  the  most  promising  student  of  literature. 
At  the  freely  sympathetic  period  the  child  becomes 
familiar  with  the  inner  life  of  language  as  used  to 
represent  fundamental  motive,  character,  and  ac- 

8 


STORY-TELLING 

tion.  This  is  precisely  the  kind  of  knowledge  that 
he  should  bring  as  basis  for  study  of  more  ad- 
vanced literature.  The  printed  page  will  be  in- 
formed with  lively  meaning,  to  which  his  imagi- 
nation, feeling,  and  aesthetic  sense  can  respond. 
It  is  largely  the  school's  neglect  of  oral  foundation 
in  literature,  which,  by  the  way,  should  not  be 
confined  to  the  lowest  grades,  that  is  at  the  root  of 
feeble  appreciation  in  book-study  of  literature. 

(8)  The  story  holds  in  it  a  greater  value,  as 
much  greater  as  life  is  than  literature;  it  will  give 
knoidedge  of  life.  The  writer  might  have  said  ex- 
perience of  life,  because  of  the  child's  strong  ten- 
dency to  be  and  to  do  what  attracts  him.  Students 
of  literature,  to-day,  are  urging  that  it  is  not  a  mere 
"  polishing  "  study,  but  the  substantially  useful  sub- 
ject from  which  we  may  get  clear  and  inspiring 
knowledge  of  life.  They  would  have  literature 
recognized  as  the  reflection  of  life,  idealized,  it 
may  be,  but  therefore  stronger  reflection.  As  life 
is  the  occupation  that  all  of  us,  no  matter  what 
our  special  vocation  may  be,  must  engage  in  to- 
gether, a  study  that  thrown  light  on  it  is  indispen- 
sable. Here  is  a  great  opportunity  for  the  story. 
Every  genuine  story,  sense  or  nonsense,  is  a  glimpse 
of  life,  which  will  early  give  guiding  knowledge  and 
experience. 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

The  story-teller  cannot,  by  the  way,  afford  to 
ignore  the  evil  in  life.  You  may  have  read  the 
story  of  Kipling's  "kid";  how  the  parents  in 
fond  but  foolish  love  for  their  only  son  shut  away 
from  him  all  knowledge  that  evil  has  come  into  the 
world,  and  ho\v  the  son,  grown  to  manhood,  enters 
army  life,  where  he  meets  his  first  temptation  and 
falls.  The  moral  of  the  tale  is  obvious.  Though  it 
is  wise  to  keep  in  the  wake  of  their  experience  with 
evil,  the  story  should  help  to  provide  the  children 
with  knowledge  and  modes  of  conduct  for  the 
situations  of  real  life.  The  cunning  story-teller, 
presenting  this  or  that  bit  of  life,  from  which  he 
has  not  made  the  mistake  of  taking  out  the  evil 
already  within  the  child's  experience  or  presently 
to  be  met,  touches  the  child  into  recoil  from  evil 
and  into  admiration  and  imitation  of  the  trium- 
phant way  of  virtue. 

The  story  should,  however,  oftener  engage  chil- 
dren's attention  with  good,  rather  than  evil,  as  the 
central,  active  force  in  life.  And  the  story  told  to 
the  growing  boy  or  girl,  and  to  the  youth,  should 
prompt  him  to  fine  and  finer  endeavor.  It  is  a 
fatal  error  to  assume  that  teachers  and  parents 
cannot  help  to  raise  the  community's  standards, 
that  the  best  the  rising  generation  may  carry  out 
from  home  and  school  is  negative  prudence,  readi- 

10 


STORY-TELLING 

ness  to  accept  questionable  social  practices  and 
ideals,  that  they  themselves  may  achieve  worldly 
success.  If  each  generation  does  not  leave  the 
world  a  little  better  for  its  part  in  it,  it  has  lived  in 
vain,  and  its  "  guides,  philosophers,  and  friends," 
the  parents  and  teachers  of  it,  have  denied  their 
office.  The  story  helping  toward  this  kind  of  con- 
structivity  should  lead.  It  is  to  the  habit  formed 
in  its  children  that  society  must  look  for  higher 
standards  of  living. 

The  story  will  widen  the  child's  outlook  on  life. 
On  the  wings  of  the  word  the  listener  may  fly  away 
to  the  uttermost  bounds  of  the  earth.  In  the  story 
world  he,  if  poor,  may  be  rich;  if  sad,  merry;  if 
inarticulate,  he  may  find  expression. 

Though  it  is  not  exhaustive,  this  is  an  imposing 
array  of  reasons  for  admitting  the  story  to  un- 
questioned educational  dignity.  If  the  school  feel 
the  need  of  broad,  scholarly  precedent,  it  may  find 
it  in  the  work  or  in  the  recorded  opinions  of  such 
seers  as  the  Lambs,  Longfellow,  Carroll,  Haw- 
thorne, Scott,  Stevenson,  Browning,  Ruskin,  Froe- 
bel,  Emerson.  As  yet  story-telling  is  largely  left 
optional  with  the  teacher.  Should  it  not  be  made 
a  delightful  school  requirement?  It  addresses  it- 
self, it  is  true,  mainly  to  the  aesthetic  taste  and  the 
feelings,  it  does  not  guarantee  consequent  action. 

ii 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

But  give  it  place  early  enough,  and,  if  it  must  bring 
it,  the  other  good  effect  will  be  added  unto  it. 

The  best  reason  for  admitting  the  story  to  scho- 
lastic dignity  still  remains  the  best,  its  lasting 
charm  for  the  children. 


KINDS  OF  STORIES  TO  TELL 

WE  appear  to  be  coming  to  the  agreement  that 
we  should  tell  the  children  many  of  the  old,  old 
stories  and  some  of  the  new,  many  stories  from  the 
world  of  the  imagination,  some  from  the  real 
world;  stories  that  will  aid  them  in  interpreting 
their  world,  themselves,  other  children,  some 
grown-ups,  nature;  stories  that  will  direct  aright 
the  imagination,  the  sympathies,  and  the  taste; 
playful  stories  and  more  serious,  sensible  and  non- 
sensical; short  stories  and  longer;  stories  to  be 
told  over  and  over  again,  stories  to  be  told  in  pass- 
ing. To  meet  the  child's  and  later  the  girl's  and 
boy's  changing  tastes  and  interests,  and  the  needs 
of  their  developing  imagination  and  sympathies,  our 
choice  should  embrace,  besides  a  great  many  others 
that  as  yet  have  eluded  classification,  fairy  tales, 
fables,  myths,  legends,  romances,  tales  of  ad- 
venture, stones  of  animal  life,  child  life,  grow- 

12 


STORY-TELLING 

ing  boy  and  girl  life,  stories  of  great  men  and 
women. 

Some  teachers  find  it  hard  to  see  any  educational 
value  in  play-stories  like  "The  Three  Bears/'  non- 
sense stories  like  "  Chicken-Licken,"  and  drolls,  or 
farce  "  funny  "  stories  like  "  Lazy  Jack."  They  do 
not  get  the  child's  point  of  view.  They  are  dis- 
turbed by  the  apparently  idle  pleasure  or  extrava- 
gance of  them.  "  Chicken-Licken  "  appears  to  be 
nothing  but  driveling  nonsense.  The  writer  has 
no  desire  to  attempt  to  turn  it  into  sense  nor  to 
press  unduly  the  claim  of  this  particular  type  of 
story.  But  why  not  let  it  in  as  a  nonsense  tale,  an 
opportunity  for  giving  the  mind  a  frolic?  This  is 
advanced  by  some  students  of  the  tale  as  its  pos- 
sible origin.  It  may  be  thought  of  as  a  reflection  in 
literature  of  the  naivete  of  childhood;  it  catches 
capitally  its  guilelessness  in  motive,  social  inter- 
course, and  deed.  Its  form  also  is  childlike.  The 
child  ekes  out  invention  in  the  manner  of  the  tale, 
by  the  open  artifice  of  cumulation  and  repetition. 
Or  the  story  may  be  dignified  into  literary  intro- 
duction to  that  type  of  classic  which  records  the 
very  common  human  situation,  "  much  ado  about 
nothing." 

The  same  teachers  are  disturbed  also  by  the  ethi- 
cal code  of  many  of  the  folk  tales;  they  find  it 

13 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

crude  and  fleshly.  It  deals  in  large  and  sense- 
delighting  rewards.  But  may  it  not  be  possible  that 
the  child  must  be  allowed  time  to  grow  to  a  more 
discriminating  standard  of  conduct  and  a  finer  kind 
of  satisfaction? 

It  is  to  be  hoped,  however,  that  even  then  the 
child  will  retain  his  capacity  for  laughing  at  merry 
play  and  hearty  comedy.  Laughter  is  good  for  the 
world.  It  is  a  tonic  to  the  emotions,  and  regenera- 
tion to  the  spirit,  spurring  it  to  fresh  and  better 
effort;  it  is  a  sign,  too,  of  broadening  imagination 
and  sympathy.  The  man  that  has  no  laughter  in 
him  is  like  Shakespeare's  man  that  has  no  music  in 
him,  "  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils.  Let 
no  such  man  be  trusted."  Most  stories  will  give 
the  children  a  more  reserved  pleasure,  happy  mental 
and  aesthetic  satisfaction;  some  a  fine  gladness  and 
exaltation.  But  let  us  not  be  too  narrow  to  admit 
the  wholesomely  "  funny  "  story. 

The  over-strained,  anaemic,  goody-good  story  is 
likely  to  breed  up  a  generation  of  canting  hypocrites. 
The  little  child  is  much  occupied,  it  is  true,  with  the 
task  of  being  good,  and  he  is  a  great  admirer  of  the 
good  people  in  the  stories.  There  is  room  in  chil- 
dren's literature  for  the  rather  obviously  moral 
tale,  if  it  be  not  too  often  presented  and  if  it  be 
really  charming.  From  this  point  of  view,  Con- 

14 


STORY-TELLING 

stance  D'Arcy  Mackay's  book  of  plays  called  "  The 
House  of  the  Heart  and  Other  Tales  "  is  a  sugges- 
tive contribution  to  children's  drama. 

For  the  younger  children  the  story  with  plenty 
of  action,  often  with  animals  as  characters,  and 
with  happy  ending  has  proved  best.  The  story  with 
less  joyous  "  inevitable  ending  "  is,  however,  not  to 
be  excluded;  life  is  not  to  be  distorted.  Besides, 
not  all  sad-ending  stories  are  negative  in  effect, 
leaving  the  child  knowing  only  "  what  not  to  do  " 
rather  than  "  what  to  do."  A  story  like  Hans 
Andersen's  "  Daisy/'  for  example,  induces  con- 
structive inference  and  effect. 

THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  ART  OF  TELLING  STORIES 

STORY-TELLING  is  one  of  the  most  spontaneous  of 
the  social  arts.  Yet  it  is  an  art,  governed  by  at  least 
partially  discerned  principles.  Analysis  of  them 
will  be  helpful  to  the  story-teller,  but  only  in  so  far 
as  he  grasps  the  fundamental  principle  that  story 
telling  among  the  speech  arts,  like  wood-carving 
among  the  manual  arts,  indeed,  even  to  a  greater 
degree,  must  be  kept  what  it  is  by  nature,  appar- 
ently without  art,  naive  and  unelaborate. 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

GETTING  THE  STORY 

The  story-teller  must  wholly  take  into  himself  the  life  of  which 
he  speaks,  must  let  it  live  and  operate  in  himself  freely.  —  FROEBEL. 

THE  story-teller  must  himself  possess  the  jstory 
before  attempting  to  give  it  to  another.  This  sounds 
obvious,  but  it  is  not  granted  in  practice.  Much 
poor  schoolroom  story-telling  is  evidently  "  un- 
prepared/' People  born  with  a  natural  turn  for 
story-telling,  and  those  who  in  their  childhood 
heard  real  story-telling,  need  to  make  less  prepara- 
tion than  others;  but  all  story-tellers  need  to  make 
preparation.  Much^of_the  story-telling  masquerad- 
ing  as  such  is  quackery,  showing  neitheiiggniusjior 
study.  Even  in  the  very  early  days  when  formal 
instruction  in  story-telling  was  unknown,  the  wan- 
dering story-teller  watched  constantly  to  make  his 
performance  tell,^modifying  hisjpetb^d  in  the  light 
QJ__its_effect  upon  his  hearers.  Later  on,  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  the  court  story-teller  was  profession- 
ally trained  (and  also  handsomely  remunerated  and 
given  the  place  of  honor  at  the  banquet).  Intel- 
lectual study  of  the  story  will  not,  by  the  way,  de- 
stroy spontaneity.  It  may  dash  it  temporarily. 
Coleridge  tells  us  that  his  professor  in  poetics  did 
not  hesitate  to  subject  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  micro- 
scope the  most  delicate  flowers  and  fruits  of  fancy. 

16 


STORY-TELLING 

(English  in  the  schools  has  suffered  from  the  results, 
in  its  teachers,  of  the  "  literary  affectation,"  which 
condemns  attempt  at  definite  English  scholarship.) 
Let  us  give  all  outlet  possible  to  natural  ability,  and 
to  the  inspiration  of  time  and  audience;  but  let  us 
not  neglect  the  forethought  of  preparation.  Shake- 
speare did  not,  Sir  Henry  Irving  did  not,  Duse 
does  not.  Some  teachers  fall  back  on  reading  the 
story;  this  has  its  own  place,  but  it 


placgjof  telling.  The  belief  that  story-telling  should 
be  studied  is  gaining  ground  in  a  most  convincing 
quarter,  the  home.  The  office  of  motherhood  is 
deeply  associated  with  things  done  instinctively 
right;  but  the  mother  herself  at  mothers'  clubs  and 
elsewhere  is  seeking  instruction  in  this  chief 
mother_arL 

To  get  the  story,  relax  your  imagination  and 
sympathy  and  let  them  go  out  to  it.  Sit  down  with 
it  and  read  and  re-read  it,  or  listen  to  it,  and  brood 
upon  it  until  you  absorb  its  life,  until  you  think  and 
Jeel  and  move  in  its  being.  Conjure  up  its  scene 
and  people  and  happening. 

Some  may  find  imagining  difficult.  Perhaps  it 
was  neglected  in  their  training.  Let  them  not  be 
discouraged;  each  succeeding  attempt  to  realize 
scene  and  person  and  action  will  make  the  task 
easier. 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

You  may,  by  the  way,  study  the  story  in  either  of 
two  places :  a  lovely  natural  spot,  where  under  the 
lure  of  century-wisdomed  tree,  or  amid  sweet  smells, 
or  flash  of  birds,  or  beckonings  of  shadows,  you 
may  catch  the  glamour  of  the  old-world  setting  in 
the  stories;  or  in  a  city  street  swarming  with  chil- 
dren, old-faced  before  their  time.  The  environ- 
ment in  the  second  studio,  far  from  destroying  your 
effort  to  grasp  the  wonder- world  of  the  story,  will 
make  special  appeal  to  you.  Here  you  will  feel 
divine  compulsion  to  make  child  life  more  abun- 
dant^ to  bring  from  story  land  bright  hosts  of  gay 
fairies  and  gentle  children  and  brave  knights  and 
real  as  well  as  fiction  heroes  as  saving  company 
for  the  little  wrorldlings,  to  make  them  chuckle  with 
a  child's  hearty  glee  at  trick  of  goblin  or  sprite,  or 
quake  with  delicious  tremor  at  the  tread  of  the 
terrible  giant.  You  will  find  that  the  "  toughest/' 
most  crabbed  city  urchin  will  succumb  to  the  witch- 
ery of  the  fairy  folk,  to  the  charm  of  beauty  and 
the  fair  play  of  kindness  and  honesty. 

The  child's  world  reflected  in  the  story  is  the 
right  of  the  child  in  the  city  tenement  district,  and 
society's  hope  for  him.  It  is,  by  the  way,  no  less 
the  right  of  the  rich  child  and  no  less  society's  hope 
for  him. 

After  you  have  leMji^j^  of 

18 


STORY-TELLING 

yoUj__takejossession^of  it     To  take  possession  of 
the  story, 

(1)  Seek  its  spirit  and  intention. 

(2)  Grasp  its^lemenjLs;    its  setting,  its^  ac- 
tion, itsjcharact^ts^ 

(3)  Master  its  workmanship,  or  its  compo- 
sition and  style. 

Its  spirit  and  intention.  Students  of  folklore 
hesitate  to  impose  on  the  folk  tales  ethical  or  sesthet- 
ical  motive;  but  they  would  not  object  to  our  seeing 
in  them,  in  addition  to  certain  primitive  ideas, 
this  or  that  playful  fancy  or  more  serious  reflec- 
tion of  life;  in  "The  Elves  and  the  Shoemaker/' 
for  example,  hearty  testimony  to  the  worth  of 
honest  effort,  the  record  raised  to  some  degree  of 
aesthetic  merit  by  the  charm  of  elfin  appreciation; 
in  "  Star  Dollars/'  crude  sketch  of  childlike  good- 
ness and  faith,  the  picture  touched  into  beauty  by 
the  benediction  of  heaven;  lovely  symbol  of  gentle 
living,  like  "  Diamonds  and  Toads  " ;  sweet  blos- 
som of  immortal  beauty  and  goodness  blighted  by 
the  withering  poison  of  envy,  yet  triumphantly 
blooming,  like  "  Snow  White;"  simple  apprecia- 
tion of  kindness  of  heart,  like  the  "  Hut  in  the 
Wood;  "  idyl  of  the  beauty  and  integrity  of  good- 
ness, like  "Beauty  and  the  Beast;"  in  "The 
Straw,  the  Coal,  and  the  Bean/'  naive  history  of  a 

19 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

merry-tragic  situation;  in  "The  Wolf  and  the 
Seven  Kids/'  the  happy  triumph  of  mother  wit 
sharpened  by  love.  For  the  children  they,  as  well 
as  the  more  modern  tales,  must  be  kept  direct, 
simple  stories.  But  the  student  need  not  miss  a 
broader  significance.  He  can  hardly  fail  to  appre- 
ciate the  analogies  to  human  conduct  so  often  im- 
plied in  Hans  Andersen's  tales,  done,  as  in  Dante's 
great  tale,  with  conscious  intent.  He  must  not, 
however,  ask  the  children  to  probe  for  hidden 
meanings,  and  he  must  not  strain  at  suggesting 
them  in  his  interpretation.  The  story  is  not  to  be 
turned  into  an  abstraction;  its  concreteness  is  the 
secret  of  its  power  to  please  and  to  move. 

After  you  have  thus  characterized  the  story  to 
yourself,  grasp  its  elements:  its  setting,  or  time 
and  place;  its  action;  its  persons,  or  characters. 
And  cultivate  sensibility  to  their  appropriateness. 

The  setting.  The  lovely  fairy  romances,  old  and 
new,  like  "  The  Frog  Prince,"  "  Cinderella,"  An- 
dersen's "  Princess  on  the  Pea,"  occurred  in  the  all- 
possible  "  once  upon  a  time,"  or  in  that  delectable 
bygone  when  "wishing  was  having,"  or  in  such 
right  good  kingly  times  as  Arthur's  or  Charle- 
magne's. Sometimes  the  place  was  an  enchanted 
castle  shut  away  behind  a  hedge  of  thorns  and 
trees,  in  the  very  heart  of  a  forest,  a  hedge  that 

20 


STORY-TELLING 

sprang  up  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  thorns  long 
enough  to  impale  unworthy  suitors;  sometimes  it 
was  the  highroad  out  to  the  world,  upon  which 
many  a  stout  hero  set  foot  to  seek  fortune.  The 
merry  gallant  history  of  "  Tom  Thumb,"  fairy 
fledgeling,  wizard-fostered,  king's  jester  and  doughty 
knightling,  is  referred  to  the  magical  days  of  Merlin 
and  the  chivalrous  court  of  Arthur.  We  find  him, 
too,  versatile  little  imp,  in  his  mother's  practical 
pudding  bowl,  in  the  red  cow's  mouth,  in  a  giant's 
stomach,  inside  a  fish ;  and  each  place  is  capital  set- 
ting for  him.  Who  says  that  giants  are  figments  of 
the  imagination?  The  people  of  Cornwall  record 
that  it  was  in  their  land  that  Jack  killed  the  giant, 
and  they  point  out  a  castle  built  on  a  rock  standing 
in  the  sea  as  the  stronghold  of  the  monster.  (Let 
the  folklorists  find  in  this  primitive  belief,  if  they 
will;  let  us  find,  also,  artistic  fitness.)  What  a  de- 
lightful plausibility  the  tale  takes  on  from  this 
minutely  recorded  geographical  setting,  as  delight- 
ful in  its  way  as  the  vague  long  ago  and  dim  place 
of  other  tales !  Here,  in  the  apparently  artless  tale, 
is  the  artistic  device  by  which  Defoe  hoodwinked 
the  England  of  his  day  into  believing  that  Robin- 
son Crusoe  was  fact  and  not  truer  fiction. 

Note   the    appropriateness   in   change   of   scene; 
Andersen's  "  Ugly  Duckling,"  among  the  modern 

21 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

tales,  affords  a  good  study.  The  artistic  principle 
is  applied  more  naively  in  the  old  story  of  "  The 
Hut  in  the  Wood  "  at  the  transformation  of  the  hut 
into  a  castle  to  be  fit  setting  for  the  sovereign  power 
and  beauty  of  kindness ;  also  in  "  Mother  Holle," 
at  the  emergence  of  the  child  from  the  dark  well  and 
darker  despair  into  the  lovely  meadow  where  the 
sun  was  shining,  and  thousands  of  flowers  were 
blooming,  and  wonderful  little  ovens  and  red  apple- 
trees  called  out  to  her,  and  golden  shower  fell  on  her 
and  glorified  her.  In  "  Dummling,"  at  the  stage 
when  enchantment  is  brought  in,  the  scene  changes 
completely  to  a  stone  castle  in  whose  courtyard  are 
stalls  containing  stone  horses. 

Note  the  narrative  use  made  of  setting.  The 
appearance  of  the  sea,  in  "  The  Fisherman  and  his 
Wife/'  as  the  fisherman  carries  each  succeeding 
wish  of  his  wife  to  the  flounder,  does  as  much  to  tell 
the  story  as  the  action  itself. 

Setting,  then,  is  part  of  the  whole.  It  is  not  to  be 
overdone,  nor  is  any  part  in  the  simple  story,  but 
its  appropriateness  is  worth  appreciation. 

The  action.  The  action  is  of  course  the  chief 
part  of  the  story.  The  motive  of  the  action  is  easy 
to  find.  But  again  note  that  it  is  faithful  to  life 
and  that  it  paves  the  way  for  appreciation  of  the 
motives  of  greater  literature.  In  the  simple  tales, 

22 


STORY-TELLING 

as  in  the  novel  and  the  drama,  the  action  arises  from 
love,  hate,  envy,  spirit  of  adventure,  friendship, 
malice,  spirit  of  fun  and  play.  Grasp  the  details  of 
the  action.  In  some  versions  of  "  The  Frog 
Prince"  the  falling  of  the  princess's  golden  ball 
into  the  well  is  made  the  occasion  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  magical  frog,  which,  for  the  aid  he 
offers,  imposes  the  condition  of  companionship  and 
love.  The  princess  pretends  agreement.  Her  re- 
pugnance to  the  frog  becomes  the  complicating 
force.  And  (in  some  tales)  her  father's  insistence 
that  she  keep  her  promise  to  the  frog  makes  all  come 
out  happily;  the  frog  stands  revealed  a  prince  in 
disguise,  and  marries  the  princess.  In  "  Dumm- 
ling  "  the  despised  stupid  third  and  youngest  brother 
sets  out  to  seek  his  elders;  then  come  the  three 
acts  of  unkindness  he  prevents;  then  the  failure  of 
the  elders  at  the  task  set  forth  in  the  enchanted 
castle,  and  Dummling's  success,  due  to  the  aid  of 
the  creatures  to  whom  he  had  shown  kindness,  fol- 
lowed by  his  triumphant  marriage  to  the  youngest 
and  dearest  of  the  princesses.  In  "  The  Cat  and  the 
Mouse  in  Partnership,"  the  story  opens  with  the 
doubtful  compact  entered  into  by  the  mouse  on  the 
cat's  representation  of  friendship,  and  her  agree- 
ment to  his  proposal  that  they  lay  by  a  pot  of  fat 
for  the  winter.  The  cat  has  the  hardihood  to  pro- 

23 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

pose  the  church  as  the  safest  hiding  place  for  the  pot 
of  fat,  hypocritically  saying  that  no  one  would 
dare  steal  anything  from  a  church.  Then  comes 
the  cat's  first  "  gulling  "  of  the  frank  little  mouse 
with  his  story  of  having  been  asked  to  be  godfather 
to  his  cousin's  remarkable  child.  "  Beauty  and  the 
Beast  "  is  another  good  character  study,  and  from 
an  important  point  of  view  for  the  little  child's 
story  a  better  one,  as  this  time  virtue  is  unmistak- 
ably triumphant. 

The  student  will  gradually  develop  sensibility  to 
the  typical  materials  of  folk  story:  human  diffi- 
culty overcome  by  supernatural  aid;  the  task  of 
guessing  a  name,  or  the  forfeit  of  a  child,  as  a 
condition  for  aid,  as  in  "  Rumpelstiltskin ;  "  trial 
and  triumph  of  the  despised  ugly  third  sister  or 
stupid  third  brother;  doughty  deeds  that  overcome 
bulk  of  body  with  nimbleness  of  wit,  as  in  "  Jack 
the  Giant  Killer;"  greed  of  wishing  whose  indul- 
gence precipitates  loss  of  all,  as  in  "  The  Fisherman 
and  his  Wife; "  reward  of  kindness  to  animals,  as 
in  "  The  Hut  in  the  Wood." 

The  characters.  ^Qiaracteme  -the  people  in  the 
jstpry.  In  their  varied  company  is  the  story-teller's 
opportunity  to  acquaint  the  child  with  the  chief 
kinds  of  persons  to  be  found  in  literature  and  life; 
the  child  himself,  cherishing  mother,  doting  grand- 

24 


STORY-TELLING 

mother,  virile  father  sending  his  sons  out  to  find 
their  place  in  the  world,  loving  brother  and  sister, 
gentle  people,  hateful  people,  ill-tempered  people, 
cruel  people,  jealous  people,  kind  people,  wily  peo- 
ple, frank  people,  brave  people,  cowards,  old  people, 
children,  sad  people,  merry  people.  Besides  these, 
animals,  pigs  and  bears,  cows  and  hens  and  goats, 
inhabit  the  child's  world  side  by  side  with  man, 
helping  the  story  to  make  its  way  to  the  child's 
affections.  Then  there  is  the  host  of  witching  fairy 
folk:  fairies,  giants,  elves,  pixies,  witches,  goblins. 
Music  as  well  as  language  has  attempted  to  suggest 
them,  and  with  surprising  agreement  in  artistic  con- 
vention. Language  makes  fairies  light,  airy,  trip- 
ping; goblins,  grotesque;  so  does  music.  Language 
makes  the  giant  huge,  clumsy,  big-handed  and  big- 
footed,  but  stupid ;  Wagner  gives  ponderous  musical 
motif  to  the  dragon,  the  "  laidly  worm/'  the  giant  of 
his  music  dramas,  and  also  makes  him  conquerable. 

The  workmanship,  composition,  and  style. 
Much  story-telling  is  spoiled  by  disregard  of  the 
composition  of  the  narrative.  By  composition  here 
is  meant  what  is  meant  in  painting  or  sculpture,  the 
arranging,  or  grouping,  of  the  materials,  to  build 
out  the  whole. 

The  method  of  grouping  in  the  folk  story  is  ap- 
parent. At  the  beginning  of  the  story  are  the  time 

25 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

and  place,  some  of  the  principal  characters,  and  the 
motive  of  the  action.  Next  follows  the  action, 
easily  separable  into  rise,  course,  resolution.  In 
many  of  the  stories,  for  example,  in  "  The  Frog 
Prince,"  there  is  after  the  action  an  explanation  of 
enchantment;  and  an  assurance  that  all  went  well 
ever  after  or  quaint  formula  like  that  parodied  in 
"  They  stepped  on  a  tin,  and  the  tin  bended,  so  my 
story  's  ended,"  whose  purpose,  similar  to  that  of 
Shakespeare's  rhyming  couplet  in  his  earlier  dramas, 
is  to  give  conclusive  ending  to  the  tale.  Like  "  Mrs. 
Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage  Patch,"  who  stayed  on  at  the 
theater  after  the  curtain  had  gone  down  on  the  last 
scene,  the  children,  though  sensitive  to  artistic  re- 
serve, are  not  always  satisfied  with  highly  reserved 
ending. 

The  story-teller  should  cultivate  sensibility  to 
story-building;  it  is  the  creative  principle  of  story- 
telling. It  is  really  surprising  how  lacking  the  be- 
ginner is  in  consciousness  of  structure.  He  should 
study  structure  until  he  can  feel  the  tale  making: 
the  scene  putting  in,  the  people  coming  in,  the 
motive  revealing  itself,  the  action  starting,  and 
going  forward  until  it  arrives  at  climax  and  solu- 
tion, the  whole  winding  up  with  happy  prophecy  of 
the  far  future. 

Grasp  especially  the  composition  of  the  action. 
26 


STORY-TELLING 

It    is    usually    built    on    one    of    the    following 
plans : 

(a)  The  single  line  of  sequence,  as  in  Hans  An- 
dersen's "  Princess  on  the  Pea/'  or  "  The  Sleeping 
Beauty,"  or  "  The  Frog  Prince ;  " 

(b)  The  three-parallel  line  —  what  the  first  did, 
what  the  second  did,  what  the  third  did,  —  as  in 
"  The  Golden  Pears"  and  in  "  Dumnding; " 

(c)  The    balanced    antithetical    plan,    two    con- 
trasting courses  of  action  placed  side  by  side, 

what  the  beautiful,  what  the  ugly, 

industrious  child  did  idle  child  did, 

as    in    "  Mother    Holle "    or    in    "  Diamonds    and 
Toads." 

(d)  The  cumulative  plan,  as  in  "  Henny-Penny," 
"The   Cat  and   the   Mouse   in  the   Malt   House," 
"  The  House  that  Jack  Built,"  "  The  Old  Woman 
and  her  Pig."     Do  not  miss  the  increase  in  interest 
and  suspense. 

Note  in  the  three-parallel  structure  the  climactic 
"  thirdness  "  and  its  distinguishing  characteristic; 
it  is  the  youngest  and  the  stupid  third  member  of 
the  family  who  turns  out  to  be  the  cleverest  and 
most  favored  of  fortune;  it  is  Dummling  who 
marries  the  sweetest  princess ;  it  is  the  woodcutter's 
third  daughter  who  proves  considerate  of  the  dumb 

27 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

animals,  frees  the  castle  of  enchantment,  and  mar- 
ries the  prince. 

Note,  too,  that  the  old-world  story-tellers  were 
sensitive  to  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  contrasts  in 
life.  The  miller's  daughter,  innocent  victim  of  her 
father's  ambition,  sits  down  in  despair  to  weep  over 
an  impossible  task,  and  "  at  this  moment  the  door 
opens  and  in  comes  a  comical  little  dwarf  "  who 
with  three  magical  whirrs  of  the  spinning-wheel 
turn  a  roomful  of  straw  into  gold.  It  is  the  very 
day  of  her  fifteenth  birthday  that  the  princess  must 
take  to  explore  the  castle  and  come  upon  unsuspected 
spinning-wheel  with  which  to  prick  her  finger  that 
the  witch's  prophecy  may  be  fulfilled,  but,  as  is  the 
merry  good  luck  of  romance,  it  is  on  the  last  day  of 
the  hundred  years  that  the  prince  goes  hunting  to 
spy,  not  deer,  but  the  towers  of  the  identical  castle  in 
which  the  Sleeping  Beauty  lies,  inquires  about  it 
of  everyone  until  he  meets  the  very  man  who  can 
tell  him  what  "  my  father  told  me,"  and  rides 
off  to  awaken  the  princess.  It  is  always  so  in 
literature  sound  at  heart,  whether  it  be  in  a  Shake- 
spearean comedy,  in  which  cottages  appear  in  the 
forest  in  the  nick  of  time  as  night  is  falling  and 
lovely  ladies  and  gallant  knights  are  footsore  and 
weary ;  or  whether  it  be  in  simple  fairy  tale  abound- 
ing in  porridge  pots,  appearing  when  folks  are  on  the 

28 


STORY-TELLING 

brink  of  starvation  and  cooking  like  mad,  "  as  if 
they  would  feed  the  whole  world  "  at  the  magic 
words,  "  Little  pot,  cook/'  or  in  frogs  popping  out 
of  near  by  wells  in  time  to  say,  "  Your  wish  shall 
be  fulfilled,  within  a  year  you  shall  have  a  little 
child,"  or  in  small  ovens  and  red  apple-trees  placed 
"  conveniently  low."  The  scholarly  student  of  nar- 
rative or  dramatic  technique  recognizes  this  as 
what  he  calls  comic  relief  to  offset  the  pathos  of 
the  situation;  the  student  lacking  this  knowledge 
accepts  with  satisfaction  the  plausibleness  of  timely 
happening. 

After  this  careful  work  read  the  story  again  for 
enriched  appreciation  of  it.  Now  put  the  book 
away  and  go  about  your  business. 

By  and  by  see  whether  you  know  the  story.  Let 
no  mistrust  born  of  book  dependence  and  neglect  of 
the  constructive  imagination  daunt  you.  Boldly 
sketch  in  time  and  place,  introduce  the  first  charac- 
ters, suggest  the  motive  of  the  action,  start  the  ac- 
tion, carry  it  forward  to  climax  and  solution,  wind 
up  the  whole.  Now  criticise  your  product.  Is  it 
the  thing  you  meant  it  to  be?  Thackeray  tells  us 
his  characters  and  plots  got  out  of  his  hands  and 
finished  themselves.  Is  it  the  tale  as  "  Jt  was  told 
to  you,"  is  it  an  improved  version,  is  it  a  new  story? 
One  and  all  may  be  in  place. 

29 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Some  will  feel  that  they  have  spoiled  the  story. 
They  have  bungled  the  structure  through  unskillful 
placing,  or  omission  of  necessary  details.  They 
have  dulled  life,  dimmed  beauty,  obscured  truth  for 
lack  of  words.  Well,  there  is  no  harm  done  as  yet. 
These  students,  studying  again  the  parts  in  which 
they  failed,  will  appreciate  now  more  thoroughly 
play  and  interplay  of  character,  detail  and  course  of 
action,  vivid  word.  The  cat  in  "  The  Bremen 
Town  Musicians,"  they  will  note,  is  capitally  de- 
scribed (in  some  accepted  texts)  as  having  a  face 
that  looked  like  "  three  days  of  rainy  weather;" 
Snow-White  and  Rose-Red  were  "  like  the  rose- 
bushes in  their  mother's  garden;"  they  will  not 
miss  in  "  The  Cat  and  the  Mouse  "  the  cat's  sly  de- 
scription of  the  pot  of  fat  and  the  apt  names  he 
gives  his  bogus  godchildren.  In  this  \vay  the  ap- 
propriate word  or  phrase  will  come  to  them  easily. 

The  question  often  asked,  "  Am  I  to  hold  myself 
to  the  text?"  is  interesting.  It  applies  of  course 
only  to  artistic  texts,  not  to  formless  source  mate- 
rial. Some  people  contend  that  this  destroys  the 
spirit  of  story-telling,  making  the  art  mechanical  in- 
stead of  creative. 

Story-telling  is  creative  effort,  never  mere  repeti- 
tion of  the  letter.  It  is  creative  effort,  whether  you 
make  live  again  something  produced  by  another,  or 

30 


STORY-TELLING 

make  live  more  abundantly  by  perfecting  matter 
and  form  produced  by  another,  or  make  new  life. 
The  question  cannot  be  answered  offhand.  If  it 
were  true  that  the  text  form,  the  composition  and 
diction,  in  which  you  found  the  story,  were  the  per- 
fect reflection  of  its  life  and  that  the  story  suffered 
no  change  in  your  comprehension  of  it,  and  that  it 
were  your  intention  to  pass  it  on  without  modifica- 
tion or  loss  to  the  child,  and  that  he  could  receive  it 
without  change  in  form,  then  the  answer  appears  to 
follow :  you  are  to  be  faithful  to  the  text.  In  some 
cases  the  form  in  which  the  folk  tale  is  found  has 
suffered  through  translation,  in  others  it  may  be 
intrinsically  faulty;  in  many  texts  of  "The  Frog 
Prince/'  for  example,  the  Iron  John  incident  is  too 
detached  and  very  much  out  of  perspective.  The 
story-teller  who  can  make  it  better  should  do  so, 
or  who  feels  prompted  to  give  the  children  another 
product  from  old  materials  will  use  them,  though 
the  folklorists  will  forbid  him  to  palm  off  his  prod- 
uct as  old-world  lore.  Any  training  in  story-tell- 
ing that  does  not  give  outlet  and  direction  to  such 
ability  and  to  originality  neglects  an  important 
obligation  to  the  student.  It  is  notable,  by  the  way, 
that  it  is  the  student  with  the  literary  artist's  in- 
stinct who  is  surest  to  "  get "  the  style  of  any  good 
original  he  may  be  reproducing.  Proper  simplifi- 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

cation  of  standard  texts  and  the  question  of  adap- 
tation to  younger  and  older  audiences  will  be  con- 
sidered later. 

Are  we  not  inconsistent  in  our  attitude  toward 
form  in  language?  We  profess  to  recognize  rever- 
ently an  intimate  relation  between  the  matter  and 
the  manner  in  the  sculptor's,  the  painter's,  the  musi- 
cian's art.  But  we  constantly  deny  any  integrity  to 
language  as  a  medium  of  expression.  We  do  not, 
to  be  sure,  attempt  to  tamper  with'  the  form  the 
great  poets  gave  their  message.  Indeed  we  "  get " 
the  verse  running  through  the  simple  prose  tale,  al- 
though it  is  scarcely  less  artless  than  is  the  prose. 
But  everyone  because  he  can  speak  in  words  appears 
to  feel  competent  to  tell  the  pro£e  body  of  the  sto- 
ries in  "  his  own  words."  Now,  every  word  in  the 
folktale  may  not  be  so  necessary  to  its  thought  as 
very  minute  details  in  Shakespeare's  or  even  in 
Kipling's  or  Andersen's  or  Stockton's  form  are  con- 
sidered to  his  thought.  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
folk-story  style,  easy,  loose  sentence  liberally  sprin- 
kled with  ands  and  sos,  picture-making  word,  dis- 
tinctive epithet,  recurrent  jingle,  rhythmic  swing. 
It  is  surprising  how  insensible  students  are  to  it. 
Yet  it  is  due  largely,  no  doubt,  to  the  best  of  all 
causes,  the  belief  that  the  story  is  to  be  given  living 
form  by  the  teller.  Dull  rote  memorizing  will  not 

32 


STORY-TELLING 

of  course  do  this.  The  method  of  study  set  forth 
suggests  how  the  story-teller  may  easily  develop 
sensibility  to  folk-story  style  and  easily  train  him- 
self to  "  do/'  or  "  catch,"  it. 

Let  us  not  be  afraid  of  a  due  regard  for  form. 
Right  attention  to  form  is  not  testimony  to  the 
worth  of  the  superficial.  The  poet  says,  "  The 
soul  is  form  and  doth  the  body  make."  Let  us  see 
to  it  that  we  make  the  language  body  of  our  story 
by  clear  reflection  of  its  spirit. 

The  question  of  oral  interpretation,  or  oral 
form,  the  more  important  aspect  of  form,  while 
properly  a  matter  to  be  settled  by  the  student  during 
the  stage  of  preparation,  is  here  more  conveniently 
considered  under  the  next  head. 


TELLING  THE  STORY 

THIS  is  truly  the  stage  of  creation.  No  matter 
how  familiar  you  made  yourself  with  the  story  in 
the  privacy  of  your  studio,  you  will  now  find  hap- 
pening something  surprising.  The  story  will  come 
to  your  own  ears  and  stand  revealed  to  your  imag- 
ination with  the  joy  of  discovery.  The  truth  is, 
it  was  made  to  be  shared  with  another,  and  you 
had  n't  it  at  all  until  you  gave  it  away.  What  spon- 
taneity rewards  you !  How  you  find  yourself  rising 

33 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

to  the  occasion  —  your  own  latent  capabilities,  the 
expanding  possibilities  in  the  story,  the  response  of 
your  audience! 

Let  us  take  up  the  topic,  telling  the  story,  under 
the  practical  heads : 

(1)  Choosing  or  meeting  story-telling  time; 

(2)  The  story-teller's  part; 

(3)  Controlling  canons  of  the  story-teller's 
part. 

(i)  Choosing  or  meeting  story-telling  time. 
"  To  everything,"  says  Ecclesiastes,  "  there  is  a  sea- 
son and  a  time  for  every  purpose  under  the  heaven 
...  a  time  to  weep  and  a  time  to  laugh  ...  a  time 
to  keep  silence  and  a  time  to  speak." 

Is  there  an  ideal  time  for  telling  a  story  ?  Assur- 
edly; at  this  time  the  story  comes  to  the  listener 
with  more  pleasure,  or  stronger  appeal  to  the  feel- 
ings. But  the  "  pedagogical "  story-teller,  parent 
or  teacher,  must  take  care  not  to  mistake  suitable 
occasion.  The  error  is  not  that  the  story-teller  may 
have,  like  the  Ancient  Mariner,  a  tale  of  sin  and 
virtue  to  tell  to  the  soul  that  must  hear  it.  To  say 
that  the  story  must  not  be  narrowed  to  didactic 
purpose  is  not  to  exclude  altogether  the  story  that 
may  work  spiritual  reformation.  The  trouble  is 
that  the  story-teller  sometimes  precipitates  irrita- 
tion rather  than  reformation  by  untimeliness.  The 

34 


STORY-TELLING 

moment  when  the  child  is  defiant  or  angry  and  the 
teacher  or  parent  cross  is  not  the  psychological 
moment  for  such  a  story.  It  is  at  the  turn  in  the 
tide  of  feeling  that  the  story-teller  may  send  into 
the  wavering  stream  the  saving  grace  of  the  tale. 

There  are  times  when  the  pupils  are  "  on  "  for  a 
mental  frolic;  these  are  the  times  for  the  play  or 
"  funny  "  stories.  Sometimes,  in  order  to  quicken 
desirable  response,  the  teacher  or  parent  will  judge 
it  better  to  run  counter  to  the  mood  of  the  children. 
She  will  sharpen  the  wits  of  dull  children  with  a 
humorous  story,  or  broaden  the  horizon  of  the 
narrowly  matter-of-fact  with  a  tale  of  adventure 
or  of  supernatural  occurrence.  Celebrations  or 
memorials  call  out  appropriate  stories.  The  early 
Hebrew  father  took  advantage  of  his  sons'  ques- 
tions about  the  festivals  celebrated  in  their  midst  to 
tell  the  great  Bible  story.  The  Christian  Church 
sometimes  narrates  the  lives  of  the  saints  to  her 
children  on  feast  days  to  inspire  the  heroism  of  holy 
living.  Things  observed  in  nature,  and  home  and 
school  circumstances,  will  suggest  many  stories. 
And  when  all  has  been  said  about  special  times,  it 
remains  true  that  almost  any  time  in  the  wonder 
years  of  childhood  is  story  time. 

But  the  teacher  may  say,  "  Story-telling  time 
means  precisely  eleven-fifteen  on  Tuesday  morning; 

35 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

the  individual  teacher  has  nothing  to  say  about  it." 
The  thing  to  do,  then,  is  to  induce  the  story-telling 
mood  at  eleven-fifteen  Tuesday  morning.  What 
we  should  urge  here  between  ourselves  is  the  obli- 
gation to  give  place  heartily  at  this  time  to  the  story. 
No  matter  how  ill  things  may  have  gone  and  how 
cross  we  ourselves  may  have  become,  we  must  now 
let  pleasurable  anticipation  take  possession  of  the 
classroom. 

(2)  The  story-teller's  part.  The  role  of  story- 
teller is  simple  yet  subtle,  more  easily  shown  than 
explained.  The  story-teller  is  recounter  of  a  hap- 
pening, real  or  fictitious,  merry  or  pathetic,  that 
because  of  its  appeal  to  the  imagination  and  sympa- 
thies has  been  given  currency  in  language.  To 
share  with  another  the  glimpse  of  life  it  gives  the 
imagination,  the  feeling  it  arouses,  the  aesthetic 
satisfaction  it  yields,  was  man's  reason  for  telling 
it.  The  story-teller's  part,  then,  is  so  to  employ  and 
interpret  the  medium  of  currency  as  to  free  this 
force. 

Beginning  the  story.  The  story-teller  should 
begin  the  story  with  the  air  of  having  something  in- 
teresting and  enjoyable  to  tell.  If  the  contents  of 
the  story  had  not  been  interesting,  they  would  never 
have  made  a  story;  the  story-teller  may  depend  on 
this  intrinsic  interest.  He  should  have  also  the  air 

36 


STORY-TELLING 

of  leisure;  story-telling  is  one  of  the  social  arts  of 
leisure  and  pleasure;  besides,  stories  record  signifi- 
cant occurrences,  which  should  be  given  the  empha- 
sis of  time.  His  initial  manner  should  give  hint  of 
the  spirit  of  the  particular  story  he  is  to  tell.  The 
first  phrase,  "  There  were  five-and-twenty  tin  sol- 
diers," sounds  the  playful  martial  spirit  of  Hans 
Andersen's  "  Brave  Tin  Soldier;"  the  story-teller 
echoes  it  in  martial  bearing  and  in  martial  swing 
and  ring  in  his  speech,  in,  of  course,  the  playful 
manner  of  a  story  about  a  little  toy  soldier.  Mother- 
love  broods  through  the  story  of  "  The  Wolf  and 
the  Seven  Kids ;  "  the  story-teller  suggests,  in  voice 
and  eyes  and  fostering  posture,  its  loving  pride  and 
anxiety.  Should  the  story-teller  begin  in  rather 
obvious  make-believe-matter-of-fact  style,  his  eyes 
hinting  fun,  the  children  will  chuckle  in  delighted 
anticipation  of  a  nonsense  or  a  humorous  story. 
The  wholly  impassive  manner  adopted  by  some 
story-tellers  in  telling  "  funny "  stories  to  adult 
audiences  will  not  do  with  children.  The  adult's 
enjoyment  consists  largely  in  his  ability  to  remake 
as  fun  what  the  teller  is  representing  as  sober 
fact.  Children,  because  of  their  lack  of  knowledge 
and  experience,  need  more  leading.  Stories  like 
:(  The  Three  Bears  "  correspond  in  spirit  to  nursery 
rhymes  like  "  This  little  pig  went  to  market ;  "  they 

37 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

should  be  kept  as  childlike,  mimetic,  rhythmic,  and 
playful.  Southey  gives  the  key  to  the  spirit  of 
"  The  Three  Bears  "  in  the  setting.  Every  detail 
shows  how  well  he  caught  the  child-note :  interest  in 
wild  animals,  the  bear  a  favorite ;  tendency  to  dra- 
matic mimicry;  response  to  rhythm;  pleasure  in 
possessions,  this  very  complete  "  house  of  their 
own/7  kept  by  bears,  delights  the  children.  A  hero 
story  like  "  Jack  the  Giant  Killer  "  calls  for  a  bold 
spirit.  "  Snow-White  and  Rose-Red  "  sounds  the 
domestic  note:  cheerful  fireside  group;  mother 
reading  from  a  "  large  book/'  children  spinning, 
animals  lying  near.  The  setting  here,  though  long, 
may  easily  be  made  attractive  by  the  story-teller's 
own  pleasure  in  every  detail. 

The  characters  also  should  be  introduced  with 
hint  of  their  personality.  "  Snow-White  and  Rose- 
Red  were  as  happy,  as  busy  and  cheerful/'  says  the 
story-teller,  showing  cheerful  pleasure  in  them,  "  as 
any  two  children  in  the  world/'  "  Snow-White," 
softening  voice  and  eyes,  "  was  more  quiet  and 
gentle;  Rose-Red,"  adopting  a  livelier  manner, 
"  liked  better  to  run  about  the  fields  and  pick  flowers 
and  chase  butterflies."  "  There  was  once  a  widow 
who  had  two  daughters;  one  of  them,"  says  the 
story-teller,  smiling  in  the  pleasure  goodness  and 
beauty,  whether  physical  or  spiritual,  always  excite 

38 


STORY-TELLING 

in  us,  "  was  pretty  and  industrious;  the  other/' 
voice  and  face  expressing  disapproval  of  her,  "  was 
ugly  and  idle."  "  A  certain  man  had  a  donkey," 
says  the  story-teller,  with  such  suggestion  of  possi- 
bilities in  the  donkey  evident  in  forward  posture,  in 
face  and  voice,  that  the  listener  at  once  suspects 
that,  as  Hans  Andersen  would  put  it,  that  donkey 
"  became  worth  talking  about." 

The  story-teller  begins  then,  as  both  prophet  and 
sibyl,  telling  yet,  especially  at  this  stage,  not  "  giv- 
ing it  away."  He  must  let  the  story  reveal  and  the 
child  discover;  this  is  the  joy  of  it. 

Building  out  the  story.  Having  laid  the  foun- 
dation upon  which  he  is  to  build  the  happening,  the 
story-teller  should,  as  a  rule,  in  building  fashion 
pause.  He  then  enters  upon  the  action,  carrying  it 
forward,  slowly  or  rapidly,  according  as  its  course 
demands,  arousing  suspense  and  increasing  the  in- 
terest in  the  outcome.  How  he  does  this  will  be 
suggested  farther  on.  As  the  story  proceeds  he 
must  of  course  treat  character  consistently.  Sen- 
sibility to  the  nature  of  the  particular  character  he  is 
interpreting  will  enable  him  to  voice  and  conduct  it 
appropriately.  Nothing  more  than  suggestion  is  in 
place.  The  story-teller's  fairy  voice  may  be  light 
and  tinkling  like  silver  bells,  his  witch  made  graphic 
through  pointed,  hag-like  chin  and  fingers  and 

39 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

stooped  body,  his  fox  smooth  and  sly,  his  wolf 
snarling,  his  giant,  as  said  before,  big-voiced  and 
ponderous.  He  can  hardly  fail  to  catch  the  steely 
high  voice  and  proud  manner  Hans  Andersen  in- 
tended for  the  vain  but  delightful  Darning  Needle. 

After,  as  a  rule,  pausing  to  give  effect  to  the 
climax  of  the  action,  the  story-teller  passes  in  many 
stories  to  a  brief  but  clear  explanation  of  enchant- 
ment, and  winds  up  the  whole  happily,  leaving  the 
child  supremely  pleased. 

(3)  Controlling  canons  of  the  story-teller's  part. 
Some  of  the  chief  canons  governing  the  story- 
teller are  directness,  spontaneity,  graphicness,  re- 
serve, skill  in  the  use  of  the  voice,  simplicity. 

Directness  is  the  principle  of  immediateness,  by 
virtue  of  which  story  and  listener  are  brought  into 
contact.  It  has  its  roots  in  the  social  and  magnetic 
nature  of  the  art.  In  its  fullest  sense  it  is  compre- 
hensive of  all  the  other  canons. 

Directness  concerns  both  the  outer  and  the  inner 
self  of  the  story-teller. 

The  part  played  by  the  outer  self  is  simple.  Be- 
fore beginning  his  story  the  story-teller  should 
"  go  to  "  and  "  gather  "  his  listeners.  He  does  this 
by  assuming  the  physical  position  and  mental  atti- 
tude of  communicator.  A  person  who  has  anything 
to  tell  another  that  he  thinks  will  move  or  please 

40 


STORY-TELLING 

him  does  not  stand  aloof.  The  story-teller  should 
not  stand  aloof.  He  may  place  himself  in  front  of 
his  listeners,  at  such  a  point  as  will  enable  him  to 
command  all.  Before  beginning  he  will  get  the  lis- 
tening attention  by  invitation  of  posture  and  direct 
face  to  face  look,  or  by  the  magnetic  force  of  the 
story  now  animating  his  whole  person.  Some 
story-tellers  then  begin  to  address  themselves  to 
someone  near  by  whom  they  feel  to  be  the  most 
responsive  listener,  or  whom  they  wish  to  interest, 
then  address  a  wider  and  wider  circle  until  they  are 
reaching  everyone.  Others  project  the  story  into 
the  ears  of  someone  in  the  middle  of  the  group, 
making  this  the  radiating  point  from  which  to 
grasp  all. 

The  story-teller  through  his  outer  self  must  ob- 
serve the  principle  of  directness  in  another  way. 
In  looks  and  actions  his  external  self  must  help  to 
convey  the  spirit  of  the  story:  posture,  facial  ex- 
pression, gesture,  voice  must  not  contradict  but  de- 
clare what  the  lips  are  saying.  It  is  in  recognition 
of  the  relation  between  the  external  self  of  the 
story-teller  and  his  story  that  some  story-tellers 
"make  up,"  or  put  on  appropriate  costume.  This 
has  its  power  and  charm.  But  for  the  "  everyday- 
ness  "  of  story-telling  in  home  and  school  it  is  un- 
desirable, unnecessary,  and  impracticable.  What  is 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

necessary  is  something  less  troublesome  but  more 
important:  such  domination,  or  absorption,  of  the 
external  self  by  the  spirit  of  the  story  as  will  subdue 
it  to  the  story-teller's  use.  This  will  help  to  induce 
the  right  feeling  response.  Feeling,  as  everyone 
knows,  is  "catching."  Fun  will  call  out  fun; 
pathos,  pathos;  gladness  at  beauty,  goodness,  or 
truth,  like  joy.  The  whole  being  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner  told  his  story.  Simple  stories  do  not  de- 
mand emotional  intensity,  but  the  principle  remains. 
The  student  will  find  it  helpful  to  sit  opposite 
Tadema's  "  Reading  Homer/7  to  get  an  idea  of  the 
recounter's  abandon. 

The  principle  of  directness  as  it  applies  through 
the  inner  self  of  the  story-teller  is  as  easy  to  under- 
stand. The  story-teller  must  not  allow  any  intrud- 
ing mental  state  or  circumstance,  any  intruding 
"  self,"  to  come  between  the  story  and  the  listener. 
Such  a  self  may  be 

1 i )  The  diffident  or  embarrassed  self  of  the 
self-conscious   story-teller. 

(2)  The  vain  or  affected  self  of  the  insin- 
cere story-teller. 

(3)  The  weakening  self  of  the  patronizing 
story-teller. 

(4)  The  non-seeing  self  of  the  non-spon- 
taneous story-teller. 

42 


STORY-TELLING 

(5)  The  non-sensible,   or  non-artistic,  self 
of  the  "  sledge  hammer  "  story-teller. 

(6)  The    non-communicating    self    of    the 
"  acting  "  story-teller. 

(7)  The  misinformed   self   of   the   lifeless 
story-teller. 

(1)  The  self-conscious  self  is  not  hard  to  over- 
come.    Diffidence  arises  from  a  false  modesty,  due 
to  the  story-teller's  failure  to  realize  his  obligation 
to  the  child  and  to  the  story.     His  part  now  is  not 
to  occupy  himself  with  mistrust  of  his  own  ability, 
but  to  bend  all  his  energies  to  interpreting  the  story 
for  the  listener.     Embarrassment  may  be  due  to 
natural  shyness  or  to  lack  of  ease  in  the  art  of  story- 
telling.   If  due  to  the  first,  it  should  also  disappear 
as  the  story-teller  realizes  his  obligation;    if  to  the 
second,  time  and  practice  wrill  probably  cure  it.     It 
is  well  to  throw  off  embarrassment  vigorously  at 
the  outset  and  plunge  into  the  story;    it  is  surpris- 
ing how  easy  and  complete  will  be  the  victory. 

(2)  Vain  insincerity  is  a  more  serious  intrusion. 
It  shows  itself  usually  in  an  affected  manner  and  a 
false  ring  in  the  voice.     The  story-teller  is  not  en- 
gaged in  telling  the  story,  but  in  exhibiting  himself. 
The  children  will  at  once  sense  such  a  fraud.     The 
pity  is  that  they  should  ever  have  had  the  chance 
to  do  so;   it  is  often  the  beginning  of  insincerity  in 

43 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

them.  This  story-teller  also  must  strive  to  realize 
his  important  office. 

(3)  A  patronizing  story-teller  is  as  great  an 
obstruction.  His  manner  is  unctuous  and  "  glawm- 
ing."  It  dwarfs  the  listener,  belittling  him  and 
undermining  his  frankness.  Hear  how  the  great 
queen  did  in  Morris's  tale: 

"  Then   she   held   him  a  little   season  on   her   weary  and   happy 

breast, 
And  she  told  him  of  Sigmund  and  Volsung  and  the  best  sprung 

from  the  best; 
She  spake  to  the  new-born  baby  as  one  who  might  understand" 

The  spirit  of  the  italicized  words  should  be  the 
story-teller's  guide.  Watch  the  child  the  first  time 
he  comes  under  the  sway  of  the  patronizing  story- 
teller, how  he  eyes  the  babying  smile  meant  to  be 
engaging,  how  he  holds  aloof.  The  story-teller  must 
trust  the  child  and  trust  the  story.  He  chooses  the 
story  for  its  suitability  in  arousing  and  directing 
the  child's  imagination,  sympathies,  or  aesthetic 
sense.  Having  made  the  selection  on  this  basis,  his 
part  now  is  to  be,  not  officious  meddler,  no  matter 
how  well  meaning,  but  communicator. 

The  patronizing  story-teller  is  inclined  to  "  thin 
out "  the  story.  There  is  a  proper  kind  of  re- 
making allowable  in  telling  a  story  or  in  fitting  it 
to  younger  or  older  audiences.  If  too  much  is 

44 


STORY-TELLING 

necessary,  the  story  is  probably  not  in  any  degree 
suitable;  it  might  better  be  left  until  the  children 
are  older.  There  are  for  the  meantime  plenty  of 
stories  more  nearly  available.  Some  modes  of  sim- 
plification of  the  content  allowable  are :  omission  of 
details  in  description  and  omission  of  minor  char- 
acters and  incidents,  in  some  cases  to  be  added 
later;  preparatory  talk  or  explanation,  reduced  to 
its  very  lowest  terms;  conversation  or  explanation 
after  the  telling,  to  be  followed  soon  by  another 
telling.  The  form  may  be  made  easier  by  simplifi- 
cation of  the  complicated  sentences  or  unchildlike 
modes  of  speech,  by  very  sparing  use  of  running 
explanation,  by  use  of  roundabout  easier  phrase  to 
be  replaced  by  the  directly  descriptive  word. 

The  power  and  the  glory  for  the  listening  child 
are  more  surely  in  the  message  as  the  seer,  yourself 
or  another  story  inventor,  saw  and  delivered  it, 
than  in  any  garbled  paraphrase  of  it,  all  that  many 
attempting  story-telling  can  manage.  Their  oppor- 
tunity lies  in  the  field  of  interpretation,  unless  they 
are  genuinely  engaged  in  changing  the  story  or  in 
themselves  telling  a  different  story  or  in  truly  artistic 
simplification.  Have  faith  in  the  little  child:  in 
his  sensibility  to  artistic  fitness,  in  his  intelligence, 
in  his  ready  sympathy.  Have  faith  in  the  story. 

Best  of  all  modes,  the  story  may  be  simplified, 

45 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

not  by  making  it  over  into  something  else,  but  by 
making  it  into  itself  through  interpretation. 

(4)  Some    story-tellers    bring    an    uninformed 
self  to  the  story.     The  root  of  their  difficulty  is 
failure  to  see  and   feel  the  child  world.     So  im- 
portant is  the  principle  of  insight  that  it  will  be 
taken  up  at  length,  under  the  heading  spontaneity. 

(5)  A  story-teller  lacking  in  artistic  sensibility 
does  not  discern  the  story  as  a  form  of  art,  though 
a  naive  form.     He  intrudes  between  the  story  and 
the  child  what,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  the  writer 
called  a  "  sledge-hammer  "  self,  or  a  didactic  self. 
It  resorts  to  pedagogical  pounding,  dealing  largely 
in  stress  on  words  and  in  the  falling  inflection.     It 
vainly  attempts  to  force  the  story  and  the  child  into 
contact'  through  the  intellect,  or  sometimes  the  bug- 
aboo of  conscience,  instead  of  by  the  open  pathway 
made  by  freeing  the  spirit  of  the  story. 

One  example,  by  the  way,  of  the  tendency  to 
force  the  didactic  note  is  the  made  over  version  of 
Southey's  "  Three  Bears,"  in  which  the  story  be- 
gins with  Silver  Locks  (the  little  wee  woman  of 
the  older  version  is  coming  back)  and  makes  much 
of  her  naughtiness,  left  in  Southey's  story  to  indi- 
rect playful  condemnation.  This  puts  her  at  once 
in  the  emphatic  position,  robbing  the  three  bears  of 
their  rank,  and  the  story  and  the  children  of  the 
play  spirit.  46 


STORY-TELLING 

(6)  The    story-teller    who    confounds    dramati- 
zation   (not   dramatic   suggestion)    with   narration 
substitutes  a  detached  exhibiting  self  for  the  story- 
teller's intimate,  communicating  self.     He  fails  to 
tell  the  story.    This  also  will  be  considered  at  length 
under  another  canon. 

(7)  Finally,  an  intruding  self  is  the  misinformed 
self  of  the  lifeless   story-teller.      It  makes   story- 
telling nothing  but  colorless  word-calling.     It  arises 
from  a  false  psychology,  resting  on  the  assumption 
that  the  child's  imaginative  and  emotional  life  dif- 
fers in  kind  from  the  adult's   (sound  in  so  far  as 
it  condemns  strain  on  the  imagination  and  the  emo- 
tions) ;   a  false  ethics,  mistrusting  attention  to  oral 
form,    or   to   beauty   of    speech;     wrong  habit   in 
speech.     Whatever  its  source,  it  prevents  the  con- 
tact of  child  and  story. 

The  canon  of  directness,  then,  requires  that  both 
the  outer  and  the  inner  self  lend  themselves  to  tell- 
ing the  story  to  the  listener  without  obstruction. 

Spontaneity  is  the  canon  of  naturalness,  by  virtue 
of  which  the  story  has  genuine  life.  It  creates  the 
illusion  that  the  story-teller  is  spinning  his  tale 
from  within  out,  its  life  having  become  part  and 
parcel  of  his  imaginative  and  emotional  experience. 
It  depends  upon  insight.  The  story-teller  of  child- 
like tales  must  "  live  with  our  children,"  as  Froebel 

47 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

said;  he  must  cultivate  sensibility  to  the  child's 
world,  catch  its  spirit  of  play  and  happiness  and 
activity,  respect  its  serious  moods,  note  its  affection- 
ate intimacy  with  animals,  cats  and  dogs  and  hens 
and  horses,  respond  to  its  humor,  feel  above  all  its 
emotional  sincerity  and  simplicity.  The  child  car- 
ries himself  unaffectedly.  It  is  easy  to  detect  the 
story-teller  who  fails  of  insight  into  the  child's 
world.  He  is  either  wholly  insensible  to  its  charac- 
teristics, or  he  grotesquely  exaggerates  everything. 
The  first  method  leaves  the  child  unmoved,  the 
second  undermines  his  sincerity. 

The  story-teller  need  not,  however,  be  afraid  to 
give  full  value  to  story  materials :  to  idealize  its 
people  and  happenings;  to  make  its  heroines 
frankly  good  and  beautiful,  its  supernatural  prop- 
erties adequate,  its  "  great  huge  bears  "  satis  fyingly 
huge;  to  give  its  seven-leagued  giants  voice  possi- 
bilities that  will  cause  half-quaking,  half-chuckling 
listeners  to  shake  in  their  shoes  in  whole-hearted 
enjoyment;  to  make  its  porridge  pots,  that  cooked 
or  stopped  the  minute  a  certain  good  little  girl  said 
so,  magical.  Story  art,  like  all  art,  idealizes  its 
materials  the  moment  it  selects  them;  the  story- 
teller in  turn  holds  them  up  to  view  of  the  imagi- 
nation. Nor  need  the  adult  story-teller  be  afraid 
of  illumining  the  view  more  fully  than  might  a 

48 


STORY-TELLING 

child  teller,  by  the  light  of  the  adult's  richer  knowl- 
edge and  experience.  No,  the  story-teller  is  not  to 
impoverish  nor  dull  the  story;  but  he  is  to  guard 
against  giving  the  listener  the  impression  of  unsuc- 
cessful pretense  at  it,  and  against  urging  him  to 
strained  imagining  and  feeling.  Until,  alas,  custom 
stales  him  to  its  false  ring,  a  child  condemns  the 
unseeing  story-teller,  not  recognizing  him  as  kith 
nor  kin. 

To  satisfy  the  canon  of  spontaneity,  then,  the 
story-teller  must  see  and  feel  the  tale  he  attempts  to 
tell,  that  he  may  re-create  its  spirit. 

By  graphicness  is  meant  vividness,  by  virtue  of 
which  the  story  is  made  plain  to  the  imagination 
and  quick  to  the  feelings.  It  is  secured  by  the 
various  means  of  oral  interpretation  (to  be  consid- 
ered under  another  heading),  helped  out  by  facial 
expression,  and  sometimes  by  gesture  or  by  dra- 
matic suggestion..  It  is  governed  by  the  imperative 
complementary  canon  of  reserve.  Reserve  is  the 
canon  of  artistic  restraint;  as  applied  here,  it  keeps 
story-telling  the  art  of  communicating,  not  allowing 
it  to  pass  beyond  the  limits  of  dramatic  suggestion 
into  dramatization. 

It  is  the  greater  degree  of  artistic  reserve  that 
divides  story-telling  sharply  from  dramatization 
and  gives  it  its  special  magnetic  charm  and  endur- 

49 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

ing  strength.  The  essence  of  dramatization  is  sen- 
sible actualization,  the  essence  of  story-telling  is 
imaginative  suggestion.  The  story  tells,  yet  leaves 
to  the  listener  exhaustless  discovery.  At  each  re- 
telling the  story  allures  the  listener's  imagination 
to  catch  added  import.  The  listener  maturing  into 
the  adult  may  penetrate  a  specific  detail  in  the  child- 
like allegory  and  uncover  a  symbol  of  everlasting 
life,  eternal  youth  or  truth  or  beauty,  and  having 
found  it,  he  can  never  with  listening  exhaust  the 
depths  of  it.  Is  it  fanciful  to  conjecture  whether 
it  be  some  response  to  this  imperishable  integrity 
that  urges  children  to  demand  the  same  tale  over 
and  over  again?  Psychology  has  discerned  in 
them  wiseacres  learning  the  realities  of  life  through 
play.  Why  not  also  through  story? 

Dramatic  suggestion  as  an  aid  to  language  and 
subordinate  to  it  is,  however,  in  place.  It  was  in- 
dulged in  freely  by  primitive  story-tellers.  Chil- 
dren use  it  instinctively.  Hint  of  happening,  by 
show  of  action;  or  glimpse  of  character,  by  posture, 
facial  expression,  suggestion  in  tone,  is  sufficient. 
Such  hint  at  once  makes  the  situation  or  character 
plain  to  the  imagination.  The  queen  in  Hans  An- 
dersen's "  Princess  on  the  Pea,"  for  example,  is  well 
brought  into  the  story  by  the  story-teller's  taking  on 
a  look  of  shrewdness,  with  perhaps  shaking  of  the 


STORY-TELLING 

head,  before  he  tells  what  the  queen  thinks  of  this 
"  real  "  princess  who  presents  herself  thus  bedrag- 
gled. In  doing  this  the  story-teller  must  preserve 
the  appearance  and  intention  of  narration.  As 
soon  as  some  students  of  story-telling  attempt  dra- 
matic suggestion  they  lose  the  listener  and  lapse  into 
playing  rather  than  telling.  Even  when  dialogue 
or  monologue  demands  a  degree  of  impersonation 
the  story-teller  must  keep  in  mind  that  it  is  for  the 
purpose  of  telling  the  story  to  the  listener.  He 
shows,  or  illustrates,  looking  back  to  insure  that  the 
listener  is  following,  or  to  make  communication. 
After  the  story-teller's  pantomime  of  surprise  and 
delight  at  finding  the  shoes,  in  "  The  Elves  and  the 
Shoemaker/'  for  example,  he  looks  at  his  listeners 
to  communicate  his  feeling  to  them  and  invite  their 
corresponding  emotion,  then  makes  verbal  commu- 
nication to  them. 

Suggestive  gesture  may  also  be  used  to  make  lan- 
guage graphic.  (Beginners  often  neglect  to  keep 
the  hands  free  for  gesture  they  may  be  impelled 
to  use.)  For  the  sake  of  the  child  we  must  recover, 
if  we  have  lost  it,  the  speaking  face,  animated  body, 
and  eloquent  hand  of  our  childhood.  As  the  word 
gains  in  meaning,  we  resort  to  gesture  more 
sparingly.  Gesture  should  precede  the  word. 
Watch  the  unconscious  child  in  his  use  of  gesture; 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

he  tells  with  the  hand  and  body  before  he  tells 
with  the  word.  Some  beginners  drop  a  gesture  so 
quickly  that  they  might  as  well  have  done  without 
it,  others  sustain  it  too  long.  Gesture  is  used,  as  a 
rule,  for  one  of  two  chief  purposes,  demonstra- 
tion or  appeal  to  the  imagination  or  feelings. 
When  the  story-teller  is  using  it  to  show  shape  or 
size  or  place,  he  does  not  need  it  any  longer  after 
he  has  done  this.  If  he  is  using  it  to  send  the  im- 
agination of  his  listeners  out  or  to  appeal  to  their 
emotions,  he  must  sustain  it  until  it  has  accom- 
plished its  effect.  Sometimes  a  quick  strong  ges- 
ture makes  powerful  appeal  to  the  imagination; 
sometimes  sustained  gesture  serves  as  aftermath, 
still  telling  to  the  imagination.  Gesture  must  not 
appear  detached  from  the  story-teller,  that  is,  put 
on  from  the  outside;  it  should  come  from  within, 
in  the  story-teller's  effort  to  tell.  It  is  helpful,  too, 
to  note  that  gesture  partakes  of  the  imitativeness  of 
art,  —  thus  we  speak  of  kingly  gesture,  command- 
ing gesture,  witchlike  gesture.  When  dealing  with 
things  that  address  themselves  to  the  expanding  im- 
agination, gesture  should  be  indefinite  and  broadly 
suggestive  rather  than  definitive.  Too  prescrip- 
tive an  indication  of  the  size  of  the  bears  in  "  The 
Three  Bears,"  for  example,  dwarfs  for  some  gen- 
erous imaginations  the  delightful  hugeness  of  the 

52 


STORY-TELLING 

great  huge  bear  and  the  irresistible  littleness  of  the 
little  small  wee  bear.  Free  sweeping  gesture  is  in 
place  in  the  heroic  legend. 

Suggestive  posture  is  another  means  of  giving 
vividness.  The  story-teller  might  learn  much  from 
the  painter  and  the  sculptor  about  the  eloquence  of 
pose.  The  Pre-Raphaelite  school  of  painting  was 
no  doubt  guilty  of  extravagance,  but  in  pose  and 
facial  expression  it  caught  some  of  the  secrets  of 
artistic  suggestion.  We  know  how  the  sculptor,  too, 
represents  listening,  or  surprise,  or  courage.  The 
sculptor  is,  of  course,  very  much  more  dependent  on 
posture  than  is  the  speaker.  But  posture  should 
help  the  story-teller,  just  as  do  tone  and  quality  and 
rate  of  voice.  It  will  not  do,  for  example,  to  settle 
back  heavily  in  the  seat  while  telling,  "  Out  popped 
the  gingerbread  boy  and  —  "  It  must  not  be  for- 
gotten, however,  that  pose  also  is  under  the  impera- 
tive restriction  of  reserve;  narration  is  not  the 
static  art  of  posing.  Constant  or  violent  change  in 
posture,  too,  except  in  particular  stories  demanding 
it,  is  out  of  place;  story-telling  is  the  quiet  if  ani- 
mated and  graphic  art  of  communication.  Posture 
and  facial  expression,  like  gesture,  should  precede 
the  word,  prophesying  of  it,  and  sometimes  be  sus- 
tained during  pause  for  effect. 

Before  leaving  this  canon,  the  story-teller  should 

53 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

understand  that  graphicness  should  sometimes  be 
veiled  under  a  pervading  elusiveness.  Some  stories 
should  be  wrapped  about  with  the  charm  of  impal- 
pability; the  mystery  of  them  is  the  secret  of  their 
appeal.  This  is  the  atmosphere  for  the  romantic 
fairy  tale,  like  "  The  Sleeping  Beauty/'  and  for 
many  of  the  legends  and  romances. 

We  are  now  ready  to  sum  up  the  canon  of 
graphicness.  We  have  defined  it  as  the  dynamic 
principle  of  vividness  by  virtue  of  which  the  story 
is  made  plain  to  the  imagination.  It  is  secured  by 
the  supreme  agency  of  speech,  aided  sometimes,  in 
greater  or  less  degree,  by  posture,  gesture,  facial  ex- 
pression, and  dramatic  suggestion.  It  is  under  the 
imperative  restriction  of  the  canon  of  reserve. 

In  an  art  defined  as  story-telling  the  skillful  use 
of  the  voice  is  the  chief  technique  to  be  mastered, 
and,  alas,  the  least  regarded.  It  is,  however,  gain- 
ing ground.  Story-tellers  are  finding  it  increas- 
ingly reasonable  to  believe  there  is  close  connection 
between  what  is  to  be  told  and  how  it  is  told. 
While  it  is  true  that  so  strong  is  the  vitality  of  the 
what  that  it  will  usually  triumph  in  some  degree 
over  the  how,  this  is  no  sound  argument  for  aban- 
doning it  to  that  fate.  It  is  also  true,  because  of  the 
social  nature  of  language,  that  the  listener  will  do 
much,  no  matter  how  dull  the  how,  to  inform  and 

54 


STORY-TELLING 

transform  the  what  in  the  light  of  his  own  knowl- 
edge and  experience.  This  is  precisely  in  just  meas- 
ure what  he  is  to  do.  But  this  argument  also  is 
weak. 

Man  tries  to  utter  his  meaning,  to  give  sound  to 
the  sense  of  his  thought.  All  students  of  words 
appear  to  agree  to  this  as  a  primary  creative  prin- 
ciple. And  in  the  utterance  of  language  he  employs 
instinctively  what  some  story-tellers  condemn  as 
the  "  show "  tricks  of  elocutionists :  suggestive 
quality  or  pitch  of  voice;  slow  or  rapid  rate  of 
speaking;  grouping,  inflection,  and  pause.  Mas- 
tery of  this  instinctive  use  of  speech  in  its  fullness 
and  perfection,  as  a  means  to  an  end,  is  what  is 
meant  by  mastery  of  oral  technique.  Whatever  the 
method  of  mastery,  direct  or  indirect,  surely  the  end 
should  be  granted. 

It  has  taken  many  people  a  long  time  to  convince 
themselves  that  the  speaking  voice  is  in  need  of 
proper  exercise  and  training.  They  have  expected 
too  much  of  the  speaker.  The  living  person  back 
of  the  speech,  the  personality,  is  the  chief  element  in 
speech;  without  the  speaker  to  utter  his  meaning, 
speech  would  be  nothing  but  empty  word  mouthing. 
But  they  should  give  the  speaker  at  least  as  much 
fair  play  as  has  the  singer,  training  in  the  use  of 
the  voice.  The  set  jaw,  wrong  coordination,  the 

55 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

half-open  throat,  the  closed  glottis,  or  "  voice  box," 
the  immobile  lip  (whose  remedy,  by  the  way,  is  not 
mouthing),  the  thick  tongue,  —  all  these,  causing 
indistinctness,  nasality,  throatiness,  are  impediments 
to  speech.  So  are  throat  or  nasal  or  dental  obstruc- 
tions. So  is  incorrect  breathing. 

The  nice  art  of  enunciation  and  articulation  is 
worth  mastery.  Phonics  appears  to  some  people 
like  a  science  of  very  small  things.  It  has  not  only 
an  aesthetic  value,  but,  if  you  must  separate  them,  an 
intellectual  value.  Masters  of  enunciation  and  artic- 
ulation give  not  only  finish  but  richer  meaning  to 
language.  This,  again,  is  no  doubt  due  to  the  lively 
connection  between  sound  and  sense.  Open  mouth 
and  throat  well  to  pronounce  the  vowels  in  joy,  or 
shine,  and  confirm  the  truth  of  this;  note  the  force 
of  vowels,  consonants,  or  aspirate  pronounced  ac- 
curately in  glisten,  shimmering,  hushed,  croaked, 
scream,  harsh.  It  will  be  understood  of  course 
that  the  requirements  of  character  suggestion  may 
demand  slurring,  chopping  off,  drawling,  and  all 
sorts  of  speech  vices;  when  in  place  they  become 
virtues. 

We  are  fond  of  using  the  expression  "  as  natu- 
ral as  breathing."  How  many  are  breathing  as  na- 
ture would  have  them  ?  The  speaker  should  be  past 
master  of  breathing:  be  able  to  expand  the  dia- 

56 


STORY-TELLING 

phragm  and  fill  full  and  deep,  to  supplement  this 
basal  stock,  as  opening  the  mouth  to  enunciate  a 
vowel  or  to  speak  a  phrase  gives  easy,  unobtrusive 
opportunity,  to  expend  breath  economically. 

The  story-teller  should  "  find "  his  particular 
voice.  To  do  this  he  may  read  or  speak  in  his  ordi- 
nary tone  and  note  where  it  vibrates.  This  is  his 
natural,  or  at  least  second-nature,  voice,  working 
basis  for  improvement;  re-placing,  purifying, 
strengthening,  making  flexible. 

He  should  be  able  to  place  tone,  to  give  it  this 
or  that  quality,  as  the  needs  of  interpretation  may 
demand.  He  should  be  able  to  keep  feeling  out  of 
the  voice,  and  to  speak  with  feeling  without  violat- 
ing the  principle  of  reserve. 

Understanding,  feeling,  and  aesthetic  apprecia- 
tion are  rooted  in  the  story-teller,  to  be  sure,  but 
they  must  be  transmitted  by  the  organs  of  voice. 
He  will  be  delighted  to  find  that  the  physical  action 
of  these  organs,  if  easy  and  responsive,  appears  to 
deepen  his  own  understanding  and  feeling  and  to 
send  them  in  greater,  fullness  to  the  listener. 

One  of  the  most  important  principles  of  oral 
technique  is  perspective,  through  which  the  central 
idea  is  kept  dominant  throughout  the  story. 
Proper  application  of  this  principle  gives  the  whole 
story  unity  and  increasing  interest  and  point.  To 

57 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

give  the  story  perspective  the  story-teller  employs 
grouping,  pause,  rate,  pitch,  and  inflection.  Space 
permits  of  nothing  more  than  this  mere  enumera- 
tion of  these  means  and  of  pointing  out  a  very 
limited  use  of  one  or  two.  Beginners  often  err  in 
grouping.  In  the  story  of  "  The  Frog  Prince,"  for 
example,  they  will  say  "  there  was  a  king/'  making 
this  a  more  or  less  complete  and  leading  idea,  in- 
stead of  "  there  was  a  king  who  had  beautiful 
daughters ;  "  at  this  point,  moreover,  by  use  of  the 
complete  falling  inflection  they  destroy  the  subor- 
dinate relation  of  this  idea  to  the  succeeding  one, 
"  but  the  youngest  was  the  most  beautiful."  Un- 
trained speakers  and  badly  trained  readers  overuse 
the  falling  inflection.  Story-tellers  will  find  it  help- 
ful to  practice  the  sustained,  or  "  forward  point- 
ing/' voice.  It  is  necessary  to  the  proper  building 
out  of  units  of  thought.  The  story-teller  should 
"  make/'  for  example,  the  word  picture  with  the 
voice,  bit  by  bit,  much  as  the  painter  does  the  line 
and  color  picture  with  the  brush,  each  added  detail 
going  toward  the  whole. 

Mastery  of  pause  is  important.  In  ordinary 
communication  the  story-teller,  as  does  everyone 
else,  uses  pause  a  hundred  times  a  day,  but  he  is 
inclined  at  first  to  overlook  its  part  in  story-telling. 
He  should  learn  to  pause  to  make  clear  not  only  the 

58 


STORY-TELLING 

divisions  of  single  sentences,  but  of  the  whole  story, 
its  setting,  action,  resolution,  and  close.  He  should 
use  it  also  to  set  off  for  dramatic  emphasis  or  emo- 
tional effect  significant  or  climactic  circumstances, 
persons,  or  details  of  action.  Pause  is  one  of  the 
simplest  and  most  effective  means  of  emphasis.  Of 
course,  like  every  other  means  of  speech,  it  is  some- 
times best  ignored. 

This  bare  glance  at  speech  technique  shows  us 
that  the  story-teller  should  have  such  command 
over  the  agencies  of  oral  transmission  as  will  enable 
him  to  convey  the  story  fully  to  the  listener.  Let 
his  point  of  departure  be  the  effort  to  utter  his 
meaning. 

When  telling  stories  to  young  children  the  story- 
teller may  do  more  or  less  "  leading  "  of  the  feel- 
ings and  the  taste,  thus  educating  the  child  to  re- 
spond to  what  is  playful  or  brave  or  humorous  or 
beautiful.  If  the  story-teller  will  show  pleasure  in 
obedience,  fun,  good-nature,  loveliness  in  nature  or 
art,  shape,  for  example,  or  color,  or  sound,  or  adap- 
tability to  use,  the  imitative  listener  will  respond 
in  like  appreciation.  Some  beginners  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  do  this.  Sometimes  the  source  of  the 
difficulty  is  bad  habit  in  reading.  This  affects 
story-telling  when  the  story  has  been  prepared  from 
the  printed  page.  The  student  comes  to  the  story- 

59 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

telling  class  with  the  habit  formed  of  suppressing  in 
his  reading  appreciation  of  excellence  or  of  beauty. 
Two  students  talking  together  outside  of  class  may 
do  the  natural  thing;  if  describing  beauty  —  loveli- 
ness of  nature,  human  loveliness,  goodness,  hero- 
ism —  they  show  pleasure  in  it  by  smiling  lip  and 
softly  shining  eye;  "beauty,"  as  Wordsworth  has 
it,  "  makes  them  glad."  But  nine  times  out  of  ten 
the  beginner  in  story-telling  who  has  prepared  the 
story  from  a  book  allows  no  appreciation  of  beauty 
to  get  into  voice  or  self  as  he  tells,  for  example, 
"  In  olden  times,  wrhen  wishing  was  having,  there 
lived  a  king  who  had  beautiful  daughters,  but  the 
youngest  was  so  lovely  that  even  the  sun  himself, 
who  has  seen  so  much,  marveled  whenever  he 
shone  in  her  face."  He  is  not  of  course  to  mag- 
nify this  phrase  unduly;  he  must  keep  it  in  proper 
perspective. 

It  is  astonishing  how  imperfectly  we  talk  and 
tell.  As  indicated  before,  words  as  they  are  ut- 
tered represent  to  the  young  listener,  and,  so  lively 
is  language,  in  great  degree  to  the  adult  also,  ex- 
actly what  the  speaker  puts  into  them.  If  he  utters 
bright  dully,  he  contradicts  truth;  if  he  pronounces 
loved  coldly,  he  robs  it  of  the  human  warmth  of  it- 
self;  if  he  mumbles  lovely,  he  dwarfs  beauty.  To 
correct  wrong  habit  in  speaking,  the  student  of 

60 


STORY-TELLING 

story-telling  should  cultivate  sensibility  to  the  feel- 
ing and  aesthetic  suggestions  in  language,  and  dur- 
ing the  stage  of  apprenticeship  be  content  to  be 
conscious  until  more  spontaneous  appreciation  shall 
relieve  him  of  watchfulness. 

To  take  another  example,  in  the  story  of  "  The 
Hut  in  the  Wood/'  beginners  often  fairly  shout 
"  night  was  coming  on,"  "  the  owl  hooted,"  "  the 
trees  rustled."  The  thing  to  be  communicated  here 
through  the  details  is  the  emotional  state  of  the  girl. 
It  is  communicated  by  sympathetic  interpretation : 
lowering  of  voice,  with  suggestion  in  it  of  the 
sounds  heard,  accompanied  by  shrinking  in  posture 
and  dawning  of  fear  in  the  face. 

Leading  is  open  to  abuse.  The  more  the  lan- 
guage of  the  story  tells  on  its  face  when  interpreted 
so  as  to  set  free  the  associations  bound  up  in  it,  the 
more  the  story-teller  must  trust  it  to  carry  its  own 
effects. 

The  story-teller  is  governed  most  by  the  supreme 
canon  of  simplicity.  His  must  be  a  peculiarly 
unelaborate,  apparently  artless  art.  In  gesture  and 
facial  expression,  in  dramatic  suggestion,  in  speech, 
his  is  that  form  or  degree  of  the  artistic  manner 
that  will  carry  to  the  listener  the  unaffected,  frank, 
childlike  kind  of  life  with  which  the  child  story 
deals :  not  intense  in  manner;  not  intellectual  nor 

61 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

artificial  in  gesture;    not  pedantic  nor  studied  in 
speech  —  but  sincere  and  simple. 


THE  CHILD'S  PART  IN  STORY-TELLING 

LET  us  tabulate  some  of  the  things  the  child  natu- 
rally does  as  his  part  in  story-telling.  The  table  will 
be  incomplete,  but  it  may  be  suggestive.  What  is 
the  child's  part  in  story-telling? 

(1)  It  is  listening. 

(2)  It  is  remaining  silent. 

(3)  //  is  commenting. 

(4)  It  is  joining  in. 

(5)  It  is  re-telling. 

(6)  It  is  partial  re-telling. 

(7)  It  is  telling  other  stories. 

(8)  It  is  inventing  stories. 

(9)  It  is  expressing  sometimes  story  images 
in  other  media. 

(10)  It  is  sometimes  playing  the  stones. 
(n)  It  is  growing  by  the  power  and  grace 

of  the  story. 

(1)  It  is  listening.     Let  us  not  underrate  the 
child's  quiet  part  as  listener  harkening  to  the  story 
again  and  again  to  catch  wider  and  deeper  vision 
of  it. 

(2)  It   is   remaining   silent.      When    it    is    the 

62 


STORY-TELLING 

silence  of  delight,  be  content;  this  is  result  enough. 
When  it  is  the  spiritual  silence  out  of  whose  brood- 
ing may  be  born  reverent  awe  or  insight  into  jus- 
tice or  cheerful  good  will  or  virile  endeavor,  bring- 
all  your  wisdom  to  bear  to  decide  whether  you  will 
help  or  hinder  by  leaving  the  child  to  himself,  and 
in  case  of  doubt  give  the  story  the  benefit  of  it, 
trusting  it  to  deliver  its  own  message  in  due  season. 

(3)  It  is  commenting.     On  the  other  hand,  do 
not  be  unmindful  of  another  opportunity.     A  child, 
like  an  adult,  is  inclined  to  talk  some  stories  over; 
meet  him  halfway.     Indeed,  in  some  cases,  lead  the 
way;   stimulate  an  inert  class  to  talk  over  some  of 
the  more  objective  type  of  stories.     It  is  your  op- 
portunity to   get  and   clarify  the   child's   point   of 
view. 

(4)  It  is  joining  in.    We  learn,  from  the  snatches 
of  story-telling  history  that  have  come  down  to  us, 
that  it  wras  the  custom  of  the  audience  to  join  in  at 
the  rhythmic  repetitions,  as  people  do  at  the  chorus 
of  a  comic  song.     The  children  show  the  same  ten- 
dency;  encourage  it.     It  not  only  pleases  them,  but 
it  is  an  easy  and  natural  beginning  in  reproduction. 
The  child's  dramatic  sense  prompts  him  to  come  in 
also   when   the   story-teller   reaches   dialogue;    en- 
courage this  also. 

(5)  It  is  re-telling.     Rightly  conducted,  repro- 

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STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

duction  of  stories  is  profitable  for  shaping  the 
pupil's  thought  and  language  mode.  But  is  the 
exercise  rightly  conducted?  The  children  listen 
in  breathless  delight  as  the  teacher  tells  the  story; 
she  demands  it  "  back,"  the  children  struggle,  in- 
terest flags,  teacher  and  children  toil  on,  and  joy 
dies  out  in  story  and  listener.  This  is  too  bad. 
Story-telling  is  a  legitimate  opportunity  for  unal- 
loyed pleasure ;  the  school  is  not  too  lavish  of  such 
times.  What  is  the  root  of  the  trouble?  It  lies  in 
one  or  more  sources :  the  practice  of  requiring  pre- 
mature reproduction  of  some  types  of  story  not 
grasped  by  the  children  to  the  definite  point  of  re- 
telling; the  teacher's  unreasonable  or  wrong  stand- 
ards of  achievement;  the  pupil's  lack  of  famil- 
iarity with  the  story,  due  to  the  teacher's  tendency 
to  turn  reproduction  into  a  test  or  task. 

The  tendency  of  the  school  to  require  immediate 
verbal  reproduction  of  all  stories  is  unwise  utilita- 
rianism. It  is  limiting  the  teacher's  choice  of 
stories  undesirably.  Feeling  compelled  to  demand 
reproduction  of  every  story,  the  teacher  confines 
her  choice  to  stories  the  children  will  take  hold  of 
easily.  We  can  all  testify  that  we  have  heard  and 
been  moved  or  delighted  by  recitals  we  could  not 
reproduce;  their  purpose  was  to  accomplish  ex- 
actly what  they  did  accomplish.  The  child  is 

64 


STORY-TELLING 

capable  of  responding  in  aesthetic  pleasure  or  spir- 
itual uplift  to  stories  as  yet  beyond  his  re-telling. 
It  is  highly  desirable  that  he  be  given  the  chance 
of  contact  with  such  material  and  that  its  seed  be 
given  time  to  root  and  flower.  To  urge  him  to 
immediate  reproduction  is  to  develop  shallow  glib- 
ness  at  the  sacrifice  of  something  finer.  Under  the 
compulsion  of  reproduction  the  teacher  excludes, 
also,  not  only  beautiful  and  spiritualizing  stories,  but 
long  stories.  Long  stories  are  not  desirable  on  the 
mere  ground  of  length,  but  even  this  ground  has  its 
claim.  The  longer  stories  give  sustained  exercise 
to  the  imagination,  and  they  give  the  story-teller 
ampler  field  to  set  forth  character  or  action  and  to 
let  the  story  yield  fuller  measure  of  delight.  Short 
and  long  and  longer  and  shorter  are  all  in  place. 
And  not  all  need  nor  should  be  reproduced. 

How  much  should  the  teacher  expect  when  she 
asks  pupils  to  tell  back  any  stories  they  have  heard 
only  once,  or  at  most  twice?  Exactly  what  the 
pupil  gives,  what  he  grasped.  Many  teachers  are 
disturbed,  however,  by  the  meager  "  language 
training "  afforded  by  this  very  brief  re-telling. 
Why  not  let  the  stories,  by  reiteration  of  them  on 
the  teacher's  part,  impose  their  thought  process  and 
language  mode  on  the  forming  habit  of  the  child? 
This  does  not  mean  that  reproduction  must  be 

65 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

verbatim  repetition,  nor  that  the  children's  individu- 
ality is  to  be  suppressed.  But  what  a  mockery, 
especially  in  some  quarters,  is  this  prevalent  idea 
in  the  schools  that  the  child  must  not  be  famil- 
iarized with  the  language  of  the  story,  but  that  he 
should  be  compelled  to  "  tell  it  in  his  own  words." 
Alas,  "  his  own  words  " !  Would  not  familiarity 
with  the  story's  language  bring  riches  to  the 
thought-starved  and  language-starved  children  of 
some  unschooled  parents,  anxious  that  their  chil- 
dren shall  enjoy  advantages  denied  to  themselves? 
Would  it  not  help  in  foreign  sections? 

(6)  It  is  partial  re-telling.  Let  the  children 
come  into  possession  of  the  story  naturally  and 
gradually.  At  each  re-telling  of  it  by  yourself  look 
for  firmer  and  fuller  reproduction.  Help  to  keep 
the  children's  interest  centered  in  the  story,  not  so 
much  by  commenting  patronizingly,  "  How  well 
John  told  the  story !  "  but  rather  by  openly  enjoying 
the  story  John  is  telling.  Let  language  come,  as  it 
should,  with  the  effort  to  express  the  thought.  And 
do  not  interfere  with  composition  by  unnecessary 
questioning.  Your  first  method  of  helping  the 
pupils'  reproduction  might  be  by  supplying  omitted 
parts  rather  than  by  questioning  analytically  for 
them,  as  is  so  commonly  done  at  present.  (Ques- 
tioning has  of  course  its  place:  it  serves  to  lift 

66 


STORY-TELLING 

• 

into  consciousness  the  relations  existing  among  the 
parts  of  the  story.)  Try  co-operative  telling:  tell 
part  yourself,  then  let  a  child  or  several  in  suc- 
cession tell  the  next,  helping  if  necessary  but  not 
anticipating,  and  perhaps  finish  the  story  yourself. 
The  children  will  soon  be  able  to  manage  more. 
Simple,  artistic  illustrative  picture  or  blackboard 
sketches,  showing  in  succession  the  main  divisions 
of  the  story,  will  help  to  give  it  uninterrupted  se- 
quence. (When  divisions  are  made  either  orally 
or  pictorially,  they  should  be  true  portions  of  the 
whole.)  Presently  the  children  will  find  them- 
selves telling  the  whole  of  some  stories  without 
undue  feeling  of  strain,  and  with  great  pleasure  to 
themselves  and  their  classmates. 

Is  it  natural,  by  the  way,  to  reproduce  in  the 
same  company  a  story  just  heard?  This  is  the 
common  school  practice.  In  an  adult  audience  this 
would  of  course  never  be  done  except  on  the  frank 
basis  of  practice  in  so  doing  or  for  some  other 
accepted  purpose.  The  children  enjoy  dwelling  on 
the  story.  And  they  may  practice,  with  the  motive 
of  telling  the  story  at  home.  The  teacher  need  not, 
therefore,  strain  at  devices  to  make  reproduction 
more  natural,  yet  she  might  often  take  advantage 
of  or  contrive  more  natural  occasion  for  it.  The 
natural  occasion  is  social  intercourse  and  entertain- 

67 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

ment.  There  is  space  only  to  indicate  one  or  two 
ways  of  securing  this  attractive  natural  motive. 
Sometimes  let  at  least  a  day  elapse  before  asking  for 
the  reproduction;  you  may  then  let  the  exercise  be 
an  opportunity  to  enjoy  the  story  again.  Tell  the 
same  story  over  and  over  (if  it  be  a  good  one) 
yourself  on  appropriate  occasions,  and  encourage  the 
children  to  do  the  same  thing.  Let  individuals,  or 
groups,  or  classes,  visit  and  exchange  stories. 

(7)  The  child's  part,  telling  similar  stories  and 
(8)  inventing  stories,  should  go  without  saying. 
Do  not  neglect  the  opportunity  offered  by  (8).  If 
you  reduce  the  class  to  workable  groups  at  a  time 
for  this  exercise,  it  should  be  practicable.  Do  not 
press  prematurely  the  creative  imagination,  but  do 
not  neglect  it.  Give  play  to  the  natural  working  of 
a  little  child's  fancy,  the  boy's  or  girl's,  the  youth's 
imagination.  It  is  wise  to  follow  the  lead  of  the 
child  here,  then  be  at  hand,  not  to  deprive  the  child 
of  the  efficiency  of  independence  and  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  making,  but  to  help  when  necessary  that  his 
attempt  may  be  encouragingly  successful. 

(9)  It  is  sometimes  expressing  story  images  in 
other  media.  Here,  again,  the  adult  will  do  well  to 
follow  the  lead  of  the  child;  of  course  of  the  most 
freely  expressive  child.  The  inert  must  be  stimu- 
lated. Left  to  himself  the  child  would  not  commit 

68 


STORY-TELLING 

some  of  the  excesses  in  sensible  representation  that 
adults  impose  upon  children,  though  objective  rep- 
resentation is  natural  to  man  at  the  childlike  stage. 
It  is  not  necessary  that  the  child  represent  mate- 
rially every  set  of  language  ideas.  The  teacher 
should  not,  on  the  other  hand,  stop  natural  attempt 
to  represent  even  the  more  elusive  kinds  of  ideas; 
there  may  be  a  budding  Watts  or  Chase  in  her 
class,  capable  of  picturing  the  highly  fanciful  and 
spiritual. 

Keep  the  exercise  growing.  Its  aim  is  to  give 
constructive  outlet  to  the  child.  The  child's  con- 
ception of  the  story,  with  expression  of  it  and  each 
re-hearing,  is  growing.  The  practice  of  keeping  a 
child's  first  attempts  at  expression  in  drawing  or 
modeling  or  cutting  or  his  attempts  at  any  one 
stage  too  long  about  the  classroom,  before  his  eyes, 
is  dwarfing.  There  is,  of  course,  the  other  side  to 
the  question.  To  accept  nothing  as  accomplish- 
ment is  deadening  to  effort.  It  is  possible,  how- 
ever, is  it  not,  to  meet  the  child  on  childlike  stand- 
ard of  achievement,  to  acknowledge  the  day's  accom- 
plishment, yet  without  disheartening  him,  or  even 
talking  to  him  about  the  better  things  he  will  do, 
to  keep  our  own  faces  turned  toward  the  morrow? 

(10)  It  is  playing  the  stories.  This,  if  not  done 
with  every  story  without  discrimination,  or  without 

69 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

reference  to  the  children's  instinctive  selective 
sense,  if  kept  at  least  fairly  spontaneous  and  pro- 
gressive, is  a  form  of  constructivity  heartily  en- 
joyed by  the  children.  It  is  wise  here  again  to 
follow  the  child's  lead.  Let  us  understand,  how- 
ever, by  this  the  lead  of  the  majority  of  our  most 
normal  children  and  of  the  most  gifted  individuals. 
Many  children  meager  in  imagination,  feeble  in 
initiative,  inadequate  in  execution,  will  need  the 
strong  lead  of  other  children  or  of  the  teacher, 
qualified  child  seer  from  her  experience  with  more 
favored  children.  Let  her  give  to  these  from  her 
abundance,  becoming  best  playfellow  and  guide. 
But  let  her  keep  herself  in  the  attitude  of  playing 
with  the  children. 

Let  us  see  how  playing  the  story  might  develop. 
As  soon  as  the  story  takes  possession  of  the  child 
he  shows  a  tendency  to  enter  into  its  persons  and 
its  action ;  to  mimic  the  voices,  to  ape  the  manners, 
to  do  the  doings.  Give  outlet  to  this ;  let  the  child 
take  on  and  play  out  the  life  of  the  story,  or  your- 
self propose  playing  the  story. 

Do  not,  by  the  way,  clutter  up  the  child's  direct 
outlet  with  staging  and  properties  and  stage  terms, 
It  destroys  spontaneity  and  reality.  Let  the  school- 
room be  the  place,  and,  as  a  rule,  the  school  fur- 
nishings any  necessary  things,  and  the  school  chil- 

70 


STORY-TELLING 

dren,  in  their  ordinary  clothes,  the  people.  The 
delight  of  "  dressing  up "  may  sometimes  be  al- 
lowed; but  a  mere  suggestion  in  costume,  if  it  be 
something  distinctive  of  the  character  impersonated, 
is  all  that  is  necessary;  a  gold  paper  crown, 
for  example,  will  at  once  make  a  queen  of  any 
child.  Why  not  with  the  little  children  talk 
simply  and  naturally:  "  Let  us  play  "  (not  act  nor 
dramatize)  so  and  so.  Who'll  be  so  and  so?  I'll 
be  so  and  so.  Where  will  you  have  your  home? 
And  so  on.  Do  not  at  the  beginning  press  even 
this  simple  kind  of  planning;  let  the  play  develop 
with  the  playing  of  it.  Help  the  children,  however, 
gradually  to  gain  in  planning. 

Playing  has  a  tendency  to  make  the  form  static; 
it  is  a  mistake  to  let  this  happen  too  soon.  Do  not, 
as  is  the  practice,  stop  telling  the  story  yourself  after 
the  children  have  once  played  it.  You  will  find  that 
their  intimate  experience  in  playing  it  will  bring  a 
more  pointed  attention  to  the  next  hearing  of  it,  and 
that  their  next  playing  will  be  richer  in  detail,  or 
stronger  in  structure,  or  truer  in  characterization, 
or  more  appropriate  in  dialogue.  Do  not,  of 
course,  keep  the  children  on  one  story  either  for 
playing  or  other  form  of  reproduction  until  they 
weary  of  it. 

Far  from  deploring,  by  the  way,  the  child's  crud- 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

ities  in  dialogue,  appreciate  the  opportunity  to  let 
him  express  himself  and  to  develop  his  language 
sense.  Keep  the  language  way  open  to  him.  He 
will  catch  the  force  of  your  comment  on  how  some 
character  spoke,  himself  suggest  to  another  pupil 
what  the  person  the  pupil  is  impersonating  should 
say,  note  how  you  talk  when  you  impersonate,  or 
how  you  respond  in  dialogue  with  him. 

Playing  the  stories  is  open  to  educational  abuse 
by  being  turned  into  insincere  show  \vork.  This 
results,  too,  in  exclusion  of  pupils  who  do  not  ex- 
cel. Keep  playing  the  stories,  at  least  for  the  little 
children,  the  spontaneous  universal  thing  they  make 
it  —  play.  Their  own  selective  sense  guides  them 
in  assigning  or  assuming  roles.  It  is  abused,  also, 
by  adult  patronage.  The  teacher  laughs  at  the 
children  rather  than  with  them,  or  laughs  when  the 
true  child  seer  would  be  serious.  The  child  thor- 
oughly enjoys  playing  the  stories,  but  this  does  not 
mean  that  he  laughs  constantly  or  at  his  own  per- 
formance. Encourage  him  to  catch  the  fun  or 
humor  of  a  situation  or  of  a  remark;  enjoy  the 
playing  openly  when  it  is  merry,  laugh  and  laugh 
heartily,  but  do  not  turn  his  genuine  playing  into  a 
sham.  Do  not,  on  the  other  hand,  take  him  too 
seriously;  he  does  not  always  take  himself  so.  In 
short,  get  the  child's  point  of  view  here  as  else- 
where. 


STORY-TELLING 

The  "last's  the  best  of  all  the  game;"  it  is 
( 1 1 )  growing  by  the  power  and  grace  of  the  story. 

May  the  child  nurtured  on  the  wit  and  wisdom 
of  the  simple  story  simply  told  live  happy  ever 
after ! 

Thus  we  arrived  at  this  place  together,  where  the  people  were 
in  the  habit  of  spinning  up  the  tow.  It  was  an  enforced  custom 
with  them  that  each  in  turn  should  relate  some  little  tale,  or  his- 
tory, and  to  tell  the  truth,  not  only  the  noble  women,  but  also 
myself  and  my  friend,  found  our  entire  pleasure  in  such  stories,  and 
we  often  used  to  stop  old  beggars  and  give  them  a  trifle  more  for 
telling  us  them.  —  JUCUNDUS  JUCUNDISSIMUS,  1680. 


73 


STORIES 


tljr  cljilfcren  all  Drato  near, 
tl)f  time  a  tale  to  tjear. 


STORIES 

THE    FAIRY    HORSESHOE 

Ax  midnight  a  long  time  ago  an  honest  hard- 
working blacksmith  heard  someone  in  his  shop 
hammering,  hammering,  hammering,  for  all  the 
world  like  another  blacksmith  making  a  shoe.  But 
the  sound  was  very  quick  and  light,  more  like  tap- 
ping, tapping,  tapping.  And  all  the  time,  whoever 
it  was  was  whistling  the  prettiest  tune  you  ever 
heard,  and  singing  between  times : 

"  1 7m  a  cunning  blacksmith, 

I  can  make  a  shoe, 

Heat  the  iron, 

Bend  the  iron, 

Hammer  it  true  — 
II  y  ho,  il  y  hoo, 
II  y  ho,  il  y  hoo  — 

I  'm  a  cunning  blacksmith, 

I  can  make  a  shoe." 

The  blacksmith  listened  and  thought,  and  listened 
and  thought,  and  listened  and  thought.  Then  he 
sprang  out  of  bed  on  tiptoe,  crying  softly, %"  I  have 
it!  I  have  it!  It's  one  of  the  wee  small  people. 
I  '11  catch  him  if  I  can  for  good  luck."  The  black- 
smith needed  some  good  luck.  His  work  was  to 

77 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

shoe  the  horse  and  shoe  the  colt  and  shoe  the  wild 
mare;  and  he  did  it  well.  But  he  hadn't  enough 
to  do,  and  so  he  was  very  poor. 

Well,  to  go  back,  the  blacksmith  sprang  out  of 
bed  on  tiptoe.  Then  without  making  the  least  bit 
of  noise  in  the  world  that  ever  was  heard,  he  opened 
the  door  of  his  bedroom  and  looked  all  about  the 
shop.  He  could  n't  see  sight  nor  light  of  anybody, 
but  he  heard  the  hammering,  and  whistling,  and  the 
singing  between  times : 

*4  I  'm  a  cunning  blacksmith, 

I  can  make  a  shoe, 

Heat  the  iron, 

Bend  the  iron, 

Hammer  it  true  — 
II  y  ho,  il  y  hoo, 
II  y  ho,  il  y  hoo  — 

I  'm  a  cunning  blacksmith, 

I  can  make  a  shoe." 

"  It 's  very  odd/',  said  he,  under  his  breath; 
"where  can  the  wee  small  thing  be!"  All  of  a 
sudden,  as  he  peered  about  more  sharply,  he  spied 
it  stuck  in  the  girth  of  a  white  mare  standing  in  the 
stall  nearest  the  forge.  The  elfin  smith  was  wear- 
ing a  bit  of  an  apron  before  him,  and  a  tid  of  a 
nightcap  on  his  head,  and  hammering  away  at  a 
speck  of  a  horseshoe. 

"  He  '11  bring  me  good  luck,  if  I  can  only  catch 

78 


STORIES 

him,"  said  the  blacksmith  so  softly  that  his  own  ears 
could  scarcely  hear.  And  without  making  the  least 
bit  of  noise  in  the  world  that  ever  was  heard,  he  tip- 
toed up  behind  the  wee  small  body,  opened  his  hand, 
and  —  snatched  him  up,  crying,  "  Ha,  ha,  I  have 
you."  With  that  he  opened  two  fingers  to  take  a 
look,  when  —  out  jumped  the  elf,  crying,  "  Ho,  ho, 
see  me  go,"  and  away  he  did  go  like  a  streak  of 
lightning. 

But  he  left  the  wee  bit  horseshoe  in  the  black- 
smith's hand.  And  it  did  bring  him  good  luck,  so 
that  ever  after  he  had  plenty  to  do.  So  many  horses 
and  colts  and  wild  mares  came  to  be  shod  that  he 
had  to  build  a  larger  shop  with  nine-and-seven  stalls. 

When  the  blacksmith  died,  he  left  the  good  luck 
fairy  horseshoe  to  his  sons,  and  they  left  it  to  their 
sons,  and  they  left  it  to  their  sons;  so  that  if  they 
have  n't  lost  it  the  blacksmith's  great,  great,  great, 
great,  great,  great,  great  grandchildren  have  it  yet. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


THE    MOUSE   AND   THE    SAUSAGE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  little  mouse  and  a  little  sausage, 
who  loved  each  other  like  sisters,  decided  to  live 
together.  They  planned  it  so  that  every  day  one 
would  go  to  walk  in  the  fields,  or  to  buy  things  in 
the  town,  and  the  other  would  stay  at  home  to  keep 
the  house. 

79 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

One  day,  when  the  little  sausage  had  prepared 
cabbage  for  dinner,  the  little  mouse,  who  had  come 
back  from  town  with  a  good  appetite,  enjoyed  it 
so  heartily  that  she  exclaimed :  "  How  delicious  the 
cabbage  is  to-day,  my  dear !  " 

"  Ah !  "  answered  the  little  sausage,  "  that  is  be- 
cause I  popped  myself  into  the  pot  while  it  was 
cooking." 

On  the  next  day,  when  it  was  her  turn  to  prepare 
the  meals,  the  little  mouse  said  to  herself :  "  Now 
I  will  do  as  much  for  my  friend  as  she  did  for  me ; 
we  shall  have  lentils  for  dinner,  and  I  will  jump  into 
the  pot  while  they  are  boiling."  So  she  did,  without 
stopping  to  think  that  a  simple  sausage  can  do  some 
things  not  to  be  attempted  by  even  the  wisest  mouse. 

When  the  sausage  came  home,  she  found  the 
house  lonely  and  silent.  She  called  again  and  again, 
"  My  little  mouse !  Mouse  of  my  heart !  "  but  no 
one  answered.  Then  she  went  to  look  at  the  lentils 
boiling  on  the  stove,  and,  alas!  found  within  the 
pot  her  good  little  friend,  who  had  perished  for  love 
of  her.  Poor  mousie  had  stayed  too  long  at  her 
cookery,  and  when  she  tried  to  climb  out  of  the  pot, 
she  had  no  longer  the  strength  to  do  so. 

The  little  sausage  could  never  be  consoled !  That 
is  why  to-day,  when  you  put  one  in  the  pan  or 
on  the  gridiron,  you  will  hear  her  weep  and  sigh, 
"  M-my  p-poor  m-mouse !  Ah,  m-my  p-poor 
m-mouse !  "  —  FRENCH  FOLK  TALE 

80 


STORIES 

THE   STORY  OF  THE   LITTLE   BOY  AND 
THE    LITTLE    DOG 

THERE  was  a  little  boy  and  there  was  a  little  dog. 
The  two  lived  together  and  loved  each  other,  and 
where  one  wrent  the  other  followed. 

Now,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  little  boy  and  his  nurse 
moved  away  to  another  city,  far,  far  off.  This 
puzzled  the  little  boy  so  much  that  for  once  he 
forgot  the  little  dog.  When  he  remembered  him, 
it  was  the  middle  of  the  night.  But,  for  all  that,  he 
got  up  and  waked  his  nurse  to  ask  her  where  the 
little  dog  could  be.  The  nurse  rubbed  her  sleepy 
eyes  and  said, 

"  Sleep  now,  my  lamb,  and  wait  till  day, 
Thy  little  dog  is  on  the  way." 

Then  she  closed  her  eyes  and  straightway  fell  fast 
asleep,  and  so  there  was  nothing  for  the  little  boy 
to  do  but  to  fall  asleep,  too. 

At  break  of  day  the  little  boy  was  at  the  window 
watching  for  the  little  dog.  But  alas !  no  little  dog 
came.  When  the  little  boy  asked  his  nurse  what 
could  be  keeping  the  little  dog,  she  said, 

"  Be  patient,  my  lamb,  't  is  but  peep  of  day, 
Thy  little  dog  is  on  the  way." 

Well,  the  morning  and  the  noon  passed,  and  no 
little  dog  came.  The  little  boy  grieved  so  that  he 

81 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

could  neither  eat  nor  play.  At  last  when  evening 
began  to  darken,  and  still  no  little  dog  came,  and 
still  the  little  boy  watched  at  the  window,  the  nurse 
put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  went  out  to  find 
the  little  lost  dog. 

It  was  n't  long  before  she  was  back  with  a  dog 
that  looked  something  like  the  dear  lost  one,  but 
much  thinner  and  quieter.  When  the  little  boy  said 
so  to  his  nurse,  she  said, 

"  Yes,  poor  doggie !    But  he  came  a  long  way, 
Without  bite  or  sup,  a  night  and  a  day ; 
Give  him,  my  lamb,  a  bowl  of  warm  milk, 
And  soon  you  '11  see  him  as  sleek  as  silk." 

The  little  boy  ran  and  gave  him  the  milk.  When 
the  little  dog  had  lapped  up  the  milk,  he  felt  so  much 
better  that  he  licked  the  little  boy's  face,  and  the 
two  frisked  about  the  room. 

But  the  little  boy  noticed  that  the  little  dog  did 
not  caper  so  merrily  as  he  used  to  do.  Indeed,  the 
poor  creature  soon  became  quiet  and  sad  again. 
And,  although  the  little  boy  made  his  own  legs  go 
as  fast  as  a  windmill,  he  could  not  coax  the  little 
dog  to  run  a  race  with  him.  He  saw,  too,  that  the 
little  dog  found  it  very  hard  to  curl  himself  up  on 
the  hearthrug  for  a  nap.  And  the  next  day  the 
little  dog  was  so  wretched  that  he  refused  to 
eat. 

"  Poor,  poor  doggie,  what  ails  you,  whatever  ails 
82 


STORIES 

you  ?  "  cried  the  little  boy.  "  You  '11  die  if  you  do 
not  eat/'  He  lifted  the  dog  tenderly  into  his  lap, 
when  —  what  should  he  feel  on  the  stomach  but  a 
seam !  "  Nurse,"  he  cried,  "  come  quickly ;  some- 
thing is  stitched  so  tight  around  the  poor  dog's  body 
he  cannot  eat  nor  breathe." 

The  nurse  ran  in  with  the  scissors  in  her  hand. 
Andlo! 

With  a  nip  and  a  snip,  and  snip  and  a  nip, 
And  a  very  loud  pip ! 

out  came  the  little  boy's  own  little  dog. 

"  Now  I  see  through  it  all,"  cried  the  nurse.  And 
what  she  saw  was  what  had  really  happened. 

While  the  little  dog  was  on  his  way  to  the  little 
boy,  a  dog-seller  snatched  him  up  and  carried  him 
into  a  shop.  There  he  tried  to  change  him  into  a 
French  poodle  by  sewing  him  into  a  skin-tight  black 
jacket  with  curly  trimming.  But  by  great  good 
luck  it  was  down  the  street  past  this  very  shop  the 
nurse  walked  and  spied  the  little  dog  peeping  out 
to  see  how  he  might  escape. 

"  Oh,  I  '11  never -forget  thee  again,"  cried  the  little 
boy.  And  he  did  n't.  The  two  lived  happy  together 
ever  after,  and  where  one  went  the  other  followed. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 


THE   STORY  OF  THE  TWO   CAKES  WHO 
LOVED   EACH   OTHER  IN  SILENCE 

ON  the  shop  counter  lay  two  gingerbread  cakes. 
One  was  the  shape  of  a  man  with  a  hat,  the  other  of 
a  maiden  without  a  bonnet.  Both  their  faces  were 
on  the  side  that  was  turned  up,  for  they  were  to  be 
looked  at  on  that  side,  and  not  on  the  other.  On 
the  left  the  man  wore  a  bitter  almond  —  that  was 
his  heart.  The  maiden  was  honey-cake  all  over. 

As  they  were  only  samples,  they  stayed  on  the 
counter  a  long  time.  And,  at  last,  they  fell  in  love 
with  each  other.  But  neither  told  the  other,  as 
should  have  been  done,  if  anything  was  to  come 
of  it. 

"  He  is  a  man  and  must  speak  first,"  thought  she. 
But  she  was  happy,  for  she  knew  he  loved  her. 

His  thoughts  were  far  more  extravagant;  that 
is  the  way  with  men.  He  dreamed  that  he  was  a 
real  street  boy,  and  that  he  had  four  pennies  of  his 
own,  and  that  he  bought  the  sweet  maiden  and  ate 
her  up. 

So  they  lay  on  the  counter  for  weeks  and  weeks, 
and  grew  dry  and  hard. 

But  the  thoughts  of  the  maiden  became  ever  more 
gentle  and  maidenly.  "  It  is  enough  for  me  that  I 
have  lived  on  the  same  table  with  him,"  she  said, 
and  —  crack !  she  broke  in  two. 

84 


STORIES 

"  If  she  had  only  known  of  my  love/'  thought  he, 
"  she  would  have  kept  together  a  little  longer." 

"  And  that  is  their  story,  and  here  they  are,  both 
of  them,"  said  the  baker,  for  it  was  he  who  was 
telling  the  story.  "  They  are  remarkable  for  their 
curious  history,  and  for  their  silent  love,  which 
never  came  to  anything.  There  they  are  for  you." 
So  saying,  he  gave  the  man,  who  was  yet  whole,  to 
Joanna,  and  the  broken  maiden  to  Knud. 

But  the  children  were  so  impressed  with  the  story 
that  they  could  only  look  at  them,  they  could  not 
eat  them  up  just  yet. 

—  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


HOW   THE    ROOSTER    BUILT   A    HOUSE 
OF   HIS   OWN 

ONE  spring  day  a  young  rooster  set  out  on  his  two 
stout  legs  to  build  a  house  of  his  own.  On  he  went, 
a  long,  long  way,  and  a  long,  long  way  farther,  and 
a  long,  long  way  farther  than  that. 

Then  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  flapped  his  wings 
and  crowed, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 
I  want  a  dame,  I  do." 

At  this  out  from  somewhere  stepped  a  bonny,  wee 
white  hen  and  fared  along  beside  him. 

85 


STORIES  ANJ)   STORY-TELLING 

On  went  the  young  rooster  and  the  bonny,  wee 
white  hen  a  long,  long  way,  and  a  long,  long  way 
farther,  and  a  long,  long  way  farther  than  that. 

Then  the  young  rooster  lifted  up  his  voice,  flapped 
his  wings,  and  crowed, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-doo, 
There  's  room  for  a  friend  or  two." 

At  this  out  from  somewhere  stepped  a  bearded  goat, 
and  a  brindled  cow,  and  a  long-tailed  horse,  and  a 
whiskered  cat,  and  fared  along  beside  him. 

On  went  the  young  rooster,  and  the  bonny,  wee 
white  hen,  and  the  bearded  goat,  and  the  brindled 
cow,  and  the  long-tailed  horse,  and  the  whiskered 
cat,  a  long,  long  way,  and  a  long,  long  way  farther, 
and  a  long,  long  way  farther  than  that. 

Then  the  young  rooster  lifted  up  his  voice,  flapped 
his  wings,  and  crowed, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-doo, 
My  friends,  will  this  place  do?  " 

The  bearded  goat  climbed  up  to  browse  on  a  rocky 
hill  near  by,  and  said  it  would.  The  brindled  cow 
cropped  the  grass  beside  a  running  stream,  and  said 
it  would.  The  long-tailed  horse  took  a  mouthful 
from  a  clump  of  wild  oats,  and  said  it  would.  The 
whiskered  cat  spied  a  field  mouse  scurrying  into  her 
hole,  and  said  it  would.  The  bonny,  wee  white  hen 
had  not  spoken.  The  rooster  looked  about  for  her, 

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STORIES 

so  did  the  bearded  goat,  and  the  brindled  cow,  and 
the  long-tailed  horse,  and  the  whiskered  cat,  but  she 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

The  young  rooster  lifted  up  his  voice,  flapped  his 
wings,  and  crowed, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-doo, 
Dame  Hen,  now  where  are  you?" 
"  Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut, 
Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut !  " 

cried  the  bonny,  wee  white  hen,  running  out  to 
tell  him  of  an  egg  she  had  laid  in  the  long  soft 
hay. 

"  Well  done,"  cried  Father  Rooster,  looking  very 
proud  of  her ;  "  our  peeping  chicks  will  soon  be  out 
of  the  shell." 

So  then  they  all  knew  the  place  would  do,  and  they 
set  about  building  the  house  of  their  own.  The  long- 
tailed  horse  cut  down  a  tree  for  wood  with  his  strong- 
teeth,  the  bearded  goat  rubbed  the  edges  smooth 
with  his  horns,  the  brindled  cow  carried  the  beams 
on  her  broad  back  and  stood  them  up  in  place  with 
her  forelegs,  the  whiskered  cat  sprang  up  and  down 
the  beams  and  nailed  them  together,  the  young 
rooster  gave  the  orders  to  everyone,  and  when  the 
house  was  done  the  bonny,  wee  white  hen  swept  it 
clean  as  a  new  pin. 

Then  they  all  moved  in.  And  there  they  lived  in 
this  house  of  their  own  for  a  year  and  a  day,  and  a 

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STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

year  and  a  day,  and  a  great  many  more,  as  happy  as 
bees  in  clover. 

And  the  young  rooster  was  cock  of  the  walk. 

-ANGELA  M.  KEYES 

THUMBELINA 

(Arranged  as  a  continued  story} 
How  SHE  CAME  TO  THE  WOMAN 

ONCE  a  woman  wished  she  had  a  very  little  child, 
but  she  did  not  know  where  to  get  one.  So  she  went 
to  an  old  witch  and  said,  "  I  wish  I  had  a  very  little 
child.  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  might  get  one?  " 

"  Oh,  that  I  can  easily,"  said  the  old  witch.  "  Here 
is  a  barleycorn  for  you.  It  is  not  the  kind  that 
grows  in  everyone's  field  and  the  chickens  eat.  Put 
it  into  a  flower  pot,  and  you  shall  see  what  you  shall 
see." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  woman,  and  she  gave  the 
witch  twelve  shillings,  for  that  was  the  price  of  the 
barleycorn. 

Well,  the  woman  planted  the  barleycorn.  And 
immediately  there  grew  up  a  great  handsome  flower. 
It  was  like  a  tulip,  but  the  petals  were  tightly  closed 
as  if  it  were  still  a  bud. 

"  What  a  beautiful  flower,"  cried  the  woman, 
and  she  kissed  its  yellow  and  red  leaves.  "  Pop," 
the  flower  opened.  It  was  a  real  tulip,  but  in 
the  middle,  there  upon  the  green  velvet  stamens 


STORIES 

sat  a  tiny  maiden,  lovely  as  a  fairy,  and  only 
half  a  thumb's  height.  So  her  mother  called  her 
Thumbelina. 

And  that  is  how  she  got  her. 


THUMBELINA 

How  SHE  is  CARRIED  OFF  BY  THE  TOAD 

ONE  night  as  Thumbelina  lay  sleeping  in  her  pretty 
walnut-shell  cradle,  there  came  creeping  through  the 
open  window  an  old  Toad.  He  hopped  straight 
down  the  table  where  Thumbelina  lay. 

"  Ah,  she  would  make  a  lovely  wife  for  my  son/' 
said  he.  So  he  picked  up  the  cradle  with  Thumbelina 
in  it,  and  hopped  through  the  window  and  down  the 
garden  to  the  brook.  Here  he  lived  with  his  son. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  her  for  your  bride,  my 
son?  "  said  he. 

"  Croak!  croak!  brek-kek-kek !  "  was  all  the  son 
could  say. 

"  Hush !  Don't  speak  so  loudly,  or  she  will 
awake,"  whispered  the  old  Toad.  "  She  might  run 
away  from  us,  for  she  is  as  light  as  swan's  down. 
We  will  put  her  out  in  the  brook  on  one  of  the  broad 
lily  leaves;  that  will  be  just  like  an  island  to  her, 
and  she  won't  be  able  to  get  away.  Then  we  '11  go 
and  get  the  best  room  in  the  marsh  in  order,  where 
you  are  to  live  and  keep  house  together." 

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STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

So  they  swam  out  with  her,  and  when  they  came 
to  a  broad  lily  leaf  lifted  her  out  of  the  cradle  very 
gently  without  waking  her,  and  swam  back  with  it, 
because  they  intended  to  place  it  in  the  bridal  room. 

Well,  when  Thumbelina  woke  and  saw  where  she 
was  she  began  to  cry  bitterly,  for  there  was  water 
on  every  side  of  the  great  leaf  and  she  could  not  get 
to  land  at  all.  The  little  fishes  swimming  below  stuck 
their  heads  out  of  the  water  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  And  when  they  saw  Thumbelina  they 
thought  her  so  pretty  that  they  drew  in  their  heads 
and  put  them  together  under  the  water,  and  nibbled 
away  at  the  stem  until  the  leaf  was  free.  Then  away 
sailed  Thumbelina,  far  off  from  the  ridiculous  toad 
and  his  son  who  could  only  say,  "  Croak,  croak, 
brek-kek-kek." 


THUMBELINA 

How  SHE  GOT  TO  LAND 

THUMBELINA  sailed  by  many  cities,  and  the  little 
birds  who  sat  in  the  bushes  saw  her,  and  said/"  What 
a  lovely  little  girl !  "  A  white  butterfly  fluttered 
round  her  and  at  last  alighted  on  the  leaf  with  her. 
Thumbelina  was  glad  of  his  company ;  she  took  her 
girdle  and  tied  one  end  of  it  around  the  butterfly  and 
the  other  to  the  leaf.  On  she  went,  faster  than  ever 
now. 

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STORIES 

Soon  there  came  a  big  May-bug  flying  toward  her. 
When  he  saw  her  he  thought  her  so  pretty  he  clasped 
his  claws  round  her  waist,  and  flew  with  her  up  into 
a  tree. 

Mercy!  how  frightened  poor  little  Thumbelina 
was !  But  the  May-bug  did  her  no  harm.  He  seated 
himself  with  her  upon  the  biggest  green  leaf  of  the 
tree,  gave  her  the  sweet  part  of  the  flowers  to  eat, 
and  told  her  she  was  lovely,  although  she  did  not 
look  a  bit  like  a  May-bug. 

When  the  other  May-bugs  who  lived  in  the  tree 
heard  of  it,  they  all  came  to  pay  a  visit.  They  looked 
at  Thumbelina,  and  one  said,  "  Why,  she  has  n't 
more  than  two  legs ;  how  very  odd  that  is !  " 

"  And  she  has  n't  any  feelers!  "  cried  another. 

"  How  squeezed  she  is  at  the  waist  —  fie !  How 
ugly  she  is!  "  said  all  the  lady  May-bugs. 

So  at  last  the  May-bug  who  had  carried  her  off 
thought  so,  too,  although  she  was  really  very  pretty ; 
and  he  flew  down  with  her  from  the  tree  and  set  her 
on  a  daisy  and  left  her  there. 

But,  anyway,  she  was  on  land  again;  that  was 
something. 

THUMBELINA 

How  SHE  GOES  TO  LIVE  WITH  THE  FIELD-MOUSE 

THE  whole  summer  through  Thumbelina  lived  quite 
alone  in  the  great  wood.     She  wove  herself  a  bed 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

out  of  blades  of  grass,  and  hung  it  up  under  a  sham- 
rock to  be  sheltered  from  the  rain.  She  scooped 
the  honey  out  of  the  flowers  for  food,  and  she  drank 
the  dew  that  stood  every  morning  on  the  leaves. 
So  summer  and  autumn  passed. 

Now  came  the  winter,  the  long  cold  winter.  All 
the  sweet  birds  who  used  to  sing  to  her  flew  away. 
The  trees  and  flowers  lost  their  leaves.  The  great 
shamrock  she  lived  under  shriveled  up,  and  left  her 
shivering.  She  tried  to  wrap  herself  in  a  dry  leaf, 
but  that  tore  in  the  middle.  Soon  it  began  to  snow. 
Every  snowflake  that  fell  on  her  was  like  a  whole 
shovelful  thrown  on  us,  for  we  are  tall  and  she  was 
only  an  inch  high.  Poor  little  Thumbelina !  she  was 
nearly  frozen! 

She  wandered  out  of  the  wood  into  a  withered 
corn-field.  The  corn  had  gone  long  ago ;  nothing  but 
dry  stubble  stood  up  out  of  the  frozen  ground.  But 
it  was  like  a  great  forest  for  Thumbelina  to  be  lost 
in.  How  she  trembled  with  the  cold! 

After  some  time  she  came  to  a  field-mouse's  home. 
It  was  in  a  little  hole  under  the  corn  stubble,  warm 
and  cosy.  There  was  a  kitchen  in  it  and  a  pantry 
filled  with  corn.  Little  Thumbelina  stood  at  the 
door  just  like  a  poor  beggar  girl  and  begged  for  a 
little  bit  of  barleycorn.  "  I  have  n't  eaten  a  crumb 
in  two  days,"  she  cried  pitifully. 

"You  poor  little  creature,"  said  the  kind  field- 
mouse,  "  come  into  my  warm  kitchen  and  eat  as 

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STORIES 

much  as  you  wish."  And  when  Thumbelina  came 
in,  the  field-mouse  liked  her  so  well  that  she  said, 
"  If  you  wish  you  may  stay  with  me  all  winter, 
but  you  must  keep  my  room  clean  and  neat, 
and  tell  me  little  stories,  for  I  am  very  fond  of 
them." 

So  Thumbelina  did,  and  had  a  very  good  time 
of  it. 

THUMBELINA 

How  SHE  MEETS  THE  MOLE 

ONE  day  when  Thumbelina  had  tidied  the  house  and 
made  it  look  as  neat  as  a  new  pin,  she  sat  down  to 
chat  with  the  field-mouse. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  field-mouse,  "  we  shall  soon 
have  a  visit  from  my  neighbor,  the  mole.  He  comes 
to  see  me  once  a  week.  Do  you  know,  he  would 
make  you  a  good  husband.  He  is  rich.  He  lives 
in  a  much  larger  house  than  mine,  and  wears  beauti- 
ful black  velvet  fur.  When  he  comes  you  must  tell 
him  the  prettiest  stories  you  know." 

And,  sure  enough,  the  mole  came  to  see  them, 
dressed  in  his  black  velvet  fur.  Thumbelina  did  not 
care  for  him  at  all.  He  talked  about  nothing  but 
himself.  He  told  how  rich  he  was  and  how  large  his 
rooms  were,  twenty  times  larger  than  the  field- 
mouse's,  and  he  said  he  did  n't  like  the  sun  and 
flowers,  just  because  he  had  never  seen  them. 

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STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  How  can  you  talk  so ! "  cried  Thumbelina, 
indignantly. 

"  Sing  us  one  of  your  sweet  songs,  Thumbelina, 
my  dear,"  said  the  field-mouse. 

So  Thumbelina  had  to  sing.  She  sang,  kk  Lady- 
bug,  fly  away."  She  sang  it  so  sweetly  that  the  mole 
fell  in  love  with  her.  But  he  did  not  tell  her  so  yet. 
As  for  her,  she  was  glad  when  his  visit  was  over. 


THUMBELINA 

How  SHE  TAKES  CARE  OF  THE  SWALLOW 

WELL,  the  mole  had  dug  a  long  passage  through  the 
earth  from  his  house  to  the  field-mouse's,  and  he  told 
Thumbelina  and  the  field-mouse  they  might  walk  in 
the  passage  whenever  they  chose. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  the  dead  bird  lying  there," 
said  he ;  "  come  with  me  and  I  '11  show  you  where 
it  is."  He  led  the  way  with  a  bit  of  rotted  wood 
in  his  mouth  to  light  up  the  long  dark  passage. 
When  he  came  to  the  place,  he  thrust  his  broad  nose 
through  the  ceiling  to  make  a  hole  so  that  the  day- 
light might  shine  down.  And  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  lay  a  dead  swallow,  with  his  beautiful 
wrings  pressed  close  against  his  sides  and  his  feet 
and  head  drawn  in  under  the  feathers.  The  poor 
thing  looked  as  if  he  had  died  of  cold. 

Thumbelina  was  very  sorry  for  him,  but  the  mole 

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STORIES 

gave  the  bird  a  push  with  his  crooked  legs  and  said, 
"  Now  he  can't  pipe  any  more.  I  'm  glad  I  was  not 
horn  a  bird,  and  that  none  of  my  children  can  ever 
be  birds.  A  bird  can  do  nothing  but  say  '  tweet 
tweet '  in  summer  and  starve  in  winter/' 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  cried  the  field-mouse,  "  you  may 
well  say  you  are  better  off  to  be  a  mole.  You  are 
clever,  you  can  build  and  make  underground  pas- 
sages where  you  may  keep  snug  and  warm  in  the 
winter.  Of  what  use  is  all  this  '  tweet  tweet '  to  a 
bird  when  the  frost  comes?  " 

But  Thumbelina  did  not  agree  with  them  at  all. 
When  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  bird  she  bent 
down,  gently  moved  the  feathers  aside,  and  kissed 
him  on  the  closed  eyes. 

"  Perhaps/'  she  thought,  "  it  was  this  very  bird 
that  sang  so  sweetly  to  me  in  the  wood.  He  did  far 
more  for  me  than  the  mole  does.  How  much  pleas- 
ure he  gave  me,  the  dear,  beautiful  bird !  " 

The  mole  now  closed  up  the  hole  and  escorted  the 
ladies  home. 

But  that  night  Thumbelina  could  not  sleep  for 
thinking  of  the  dead  bird.  So  she  got  out  of  her 
bed  and  wove  a  soft  blanket  of  hay.  She  carried 
this  out  into  the  dark  passage  and  spread  it  over  the 
poor  bird.  As  she  did  so  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
bird's  heart.  It  was  beating !  He  was  not  dead  at 
all !  only  numb  with  cold. 

When  he  grew  warm  through  and  through  he 

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STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Thumbelina.  At  first 
she  trembled,  she  was  so  frightened,  for  the  bird  was 
very  large  to  her,  who  was  only  an  inch  in  height. 
But  she  was  too  kind  to  run  away  from  him. 

"  Thank  you,  pretty  child,"  said  the  sick  swallow 
in  a  weak  voice.  "  Now  that  I  am  warm  I  shall  get 
strong  again  and  be  able  to  fly  on  my  way." 

"  Oh,  stay  where  you  are,"  said  Thumbelina,  "  it 
is  so  cold  outside.  It  snows  and  freezes.  Stay  in 
your  warm  bed  and  I  will  nurse  you." 

She  brought  the  swallow  water  in  the  petal  of  a 
flower.  When  he  had  drunk  he  told  her  all  about 
himself.  He  had  set  out  for  the  south,  the  warm 
countries,  with  the  other  swallows;  but  as  he  flew 
he  caught  one  of  his  wings  in  a  thorn  bush  and  tore 
it.  After  this  he  could  not  fly  so  fast  as  the  others, 
so  the  winter  overtook  him  and  he  could  not  stand 
the  cold.  It  benumbed  him  so  that  he  fell  to  the 
ground.  He  could  remember  nothing  more  after 
this,  until  he  opened  his  eyes  and  found  Thumbelina 
at  his  side. 

The  whole  winter  Thumbelina  nursed  the  swallow. 
And  when  the  spring  came  and  the  sun  was  warm, 
she  opened  the  hole  in  the  ceiling  and  let  the  sunshine 
pour  in  on  him. 

"  I  am  strong  enough  now  to  fly  out  into  the  sun- 
shine," said  the  swallow.  "  Sit  on  my  back  and  let 
us  fly  far  into  the  green  wood." 

But  Thumbelina  would  not  do  this;  she  knew 
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STORIES 

that  the  old  field-mouse  would  be  lonely  without 
her. 

"  No,  I  cannot,"  said  she. 

"  Farewell  then,  you  pretty,  good  child/'  said  the 
swallow,  and  he  flew  off  into  the  sunshine.  Thumb- 
elina  looked  after  him,  and  the  tears  came  into  her 
eyes,  she  \vas  so  sorry  to  part  with  him. 

"  Tweet-tweet,"  he  sang,  as  she  lost  sight  of  him 
in  the  green  wood. 


THUMBELINA 

How  SHE  is  HELPED  BY  THE  SWALLOW 

"  MY  dear,"  said  the  field-mouse  one  day  after  the 
mole  had  paid  her  a  visit,  "  the  mole  has  asked  me 
to  give  you  to  him  for  his  wife.  You  are  very  for- 
tunate, a  poor  child  like  you.  You  must  be  ready  to 
marry  him  as  soon  as  possible.  Set  to  work  at  once 
on  your  wedding-dress." 

So  Thumbelina  had  to  turn  the  spindle  to  make 
herself  not  only  a  wedding-dress  but  plenty  of  wool 
and  linen,  for  the  field-mouse  said  she  would  not 
have  her  go  to  the  fnole  empty-handed,  as  if  she 
were  a  beggar-girl.  And  the  mole  himself  hired 
four  spiders  to  weave  her  a  beautiful  cobweb  veil. 
And  every  evening  he  paid  her  a  visit,  and  said  they 
must  be  married  as  soon  as  the  summer  was  over. 

Poor  Thumbelina  did  not  know  what  to  do.     She 

97 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

did  not  wish  to  marry  the  mole,  and  live  under  the 
ground,  where  the  sun  never  shone.  The  first  thing 
every  morning  and  the  last  every  evening,  she  crept 
outdoors,  and  when  the  wind  blew  the  corn  leaves 
apart,  she  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  wished  the 
swallow  would  come  to  her.  But  he  did  not. 

When  autumn  came,  Thumbelina  had  everything 
ready. 

"  Only  four  weeks  more  for  the  wedding/'  cried 
the  mole. 

But  when  he  had  gone  home  Thumbelina  wept 
and  said  she  could  not  marry  the  ugly  mole,  who 
talked  about  nothing  but  himself. 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  the  field-mouse,  "  don't  be  ob- 
stinate, or  I  '11  bite  you  with  my  sharp  teeth.  The 
Queen  herself  has  not  such  black  velvet  fur.  And 
his  kitchen  and  cellar  are  full.  Be  thankful  for  your 
good  fortune." 

Well,  the  wedding  day  arrived.  The  mole,  dressed 
in  his  best  black  velvet,  came  to  fetch  Thumbelina 
to  his  house. 

"  Farewell,  thou  bright  sun!  "  she  cried,  running 
out  of  the  house  a  little  way.  "  Farewell,"  she  cried, 
twining  her  arms  around  a  little  red  flower  still 
blooming  there ;  "  say  farewell  to  the  little  swallow 
for  me,  if  you  see  him  again." 

*  Tweet-tweet !  tweet-tweet !  "  suddenly  sounded 
over  her  head.  She  looked  up;  it  was  the  little 
swallow,  just  flying  by.  He  stopped  when  he  saw 

98 


STORIES 

Thumbeiina,  he  was  so  glad.  And  Thumbelina  told 
him  how  she  was  to  marry  the  mole,  and  live  deep 
under  the  earth,  where  the  sun  never  shone.  She 
could  not  help  weeping  as  she  told  of  it. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  swallow,  "  I  am  on  my 
way  far  off  to  the  warm  countries.  Sit  on  my  back, 
and  we  will  fly  from  the  ugly  mole  and  his  dark 
room.  Only  fly  with  me,  you  dear  little  Thumbelina, 
who  were  so  good  to  me  when  I  lay  frozen  in  the 
dark  passage." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Thumbelina,  "  I  will  go  with  you." 
And  she  seated  herself  on  the  bird's  back,  and  bound 
her  girdle  to  one  of  his  strongest  feathers.  Then 
the  swallow  flew  up  into  the  air  and  away  over 
forest  and  sea  and  great  high  mountains,  where  the 
snow  always  lies,  and  on,  on,  on  to  the  beautiful 
warm  countries. 


THUMBELINA 
WHAT  BECAME  OF  HER  AT  LAST 

IN  the  warm  countries  the  sun  shone  so  bright  that 
in  the  ditches  and  on  the  hedges  grew  big  juicy  blue 
and  green  grapes,  lemons  and  oranges  hung  in  the 
woods,  and  the  loveliest  children  ran  about  the 
roads  chasing  gorgeous  butterflies.  The  swallow 
flew  on  until  he  came  to  a  great  palace  with  dazzling 
white  marble  pillars, 

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STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

"  My  house  is  at  the  top  of  one  of  those  pillars," 
said  he,  "  but  it  is  not  good  enough  for  you.  It  is 
not  yet  so  well  furnished  as  I  should  like  it  to  be  if 
you  were  to  live  in  it.  Pick  out  one  of  the  splendid 
flowers  you  see  down  there,  and  I  will  set  you  down 
in  it." 

"  That  will  be  a  beautiful  home,"  cried  Thumb- 
elina,  and  clapped  her  hands.  She  chose  a  great 
white  flower.  The  swallow  flew  down  with  her  and 
set  her  on  one  of  the  broad  leaves.  What  was 
Thumbelina's  surprise?  There  in  the  flower  sat  a 
little  man,  shining  white,  with  a  tiny  gold  crown 
on  his  head,  and  bright  wings  on  his  shoulders ;  and 
he  was  n't  a  bit  bigger  than  Thumbelina  herself. 

"How  handsome  he  is!"  whispered  she  to  the 
swallow. 

"  That  is  the  king  of  all  the  flowers,"  whispered 
^the  swallow  back  to  her. 

The  little  king  was  afraid  of  the  big  swallow,  but 
he  liked  Thumbelina  the  minute  he  saw  her.  She 
was  the  prettiest  maiden  he  had  ever  laid  eyes  on. 
Instantly  he  took  off  his  golden  crown  and  put  it 
on  her  head,  asked  her  name,  and  begged  her  to  be 
his  wife  and  queen  of  all  the  flowers. 

Now  of  course  such  a  husband  was  much  better 
than  the  toad's  son  who  could  say  nothing  from 
morning  till  night  but  "  Croak,  croak,  brek-kek- 
brek ; "  and  the  field-mouse  's  neighbor,  the  mole, 
who  could  do  nothing  from  morning  till  night  but 

100 


STORIES 

talk  of  himself.  So  Thumbelina  said  "  Yes,"  with 
a  right  good  will,  to  the  charming  Prince. 

And  out  of  every  flower  came  a  lady  or  lord, 
lovely  to  behold,  and  each  brought  Thumbelina  a 
wedding  present.  But  the  best  gift  was  a  pair  of 
beautiful  wings  that  had  once  belonged  to  a  great 
white  fly.  When  these  had  been  fastened  on  her  by 
one  of  the  lovely  ladies,  Thumbelina  could  fly  from 
flower  to  flower,  and  visit  everyone  in  her  kingdom. 

It  was  a  joyful  wedding.  The  little  swallow  sat 
above  them  in  the  nest,  —  he  was  to  sing  the  mar- 
riage-song. And  although  his  heart  was  sad  to  lose 
Thumbelina,  he  sang  it  sweetly. 

So  that  is  the  end,  and  Thumbelina  lived  happy 
ever  after.  — HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

A   VISIT    FROM    AN    ELF 

ONE  evening,  as  a  farmer  was  crossing  a  field  to  his 
home,  what  should  he  see  sitting  on  a  stone  in  the 
middle  of  it  but  a  tiny  creature!  The  little  thing 
looked  something  like  a  very,  very,  very  small,  teeny, 
weeny,  tiny  little  child.  And  it  was  blue  and  shiver- 
ing with  cold.  The  farmer  saw  that  it  must  be  an  elf. 
He  knew  it  would  bring  him  good  luck  to  be  kind 
to  it.  Besides,  he  pitied  it  from  his  heart.  So  he 
took  it  home  and  placed  it  on  a  stool  by  the  hearth, 
and  fed  it  with  sweet  milk.  Soon  the  bantling  was 
warm  and  lively.  He  capered  and  sprang  about  the 

101 


STORIES    AND   STORY-TELLING 

kitchen  merrier  than  a  cricket,  and  twice  as  light- 
footed. 

Well,  he  did  n't  go  the  next  day  nor  the  next  nor 
the  next.  He  stayed  for  many  days.  A  curious 
thing  about  him  was  that  he  never  spoke.  But  that 
did  not  matter,  for  he  kept  the  farmer  and  the 
farmer's  wife  laughing  at  his  tricks. 

He  and  they  had  many  a  play  together.  Some- 
times, when  the  farmer's  wife  was  not  looking,  he 
would  creep  into  the  keyhole.  Then  the  farmer 
would  call  out,  "  Find  him,  wife." 

At  this  the  farmer's  wife  would  search  all  about 
the  kitchen,  under  the  chairs,  in  the  closet,  be- 
hind the  wood  box,  even  in  the  clock  case.  But 
she  could  not  find  him.  Then  she  would  cry  out, 
"  Where  are  you,  Tinykins?  " 

The  farmer  would  chuckle  and  hee-haw,  and  slap 
his  knee,  and  wink,  and  say, 

"  He  's  neither  in, 
And  he  's  neither  out ; 
He  's  where  something  goes  in 
When  the  light  goes  out." 

Quick  as  the  crow  flies  before  the  farmer's  empty 
gun  the  farmer's  wife  would  guess,  "  You  're  in  the 
keyhole,  Tinykins,  you  rogue,  come  out." 

And  out  he  would  pop  in  high  glee. 

The  way  he  went  was  as  strange  as  the  way  he 
came.  I  Jll  tell  you  about  it. 

102 


STORIES 

One  evening  as  the  little  fellow  was  frisking  about 
the  farm  kitchen,  a  shrill  voice  from  the  farmyard 
called  three  times,  "  Tolman  Grig!  Tolman  Grig! 
Tolman  Grig!" 

"  Ho!  ho!  ho!  My  daddy  is  come,"  cried  the  elf, 
springing  up  and  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

With  that,  off  he  flew  through  the  keyhole. 

That  was  the  last  the  farmer  or  his  wife  ever  saw 
of  him.  But  forever  after  they  were  happy  and 
prosperous.  -  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 

HOW   THE    CAT    GOT    ALL    THE    GRAIN 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  Cat  and  a  Parrot  owned  a  field 
together.  One  day  the  Cat  said  to  the  Parrot, 
"  Come,  friend,  't  is  time  to  till  the  field." 

Said  the  Parrot,  "  I  can't  come  now,  because  I 
am  whetting  my  bill  on  the  branch  of  a  mango- 
tree." 

So  the  Cat  went  alone  and  plowed  the  field. 
When  it  was  plowed  the  Cat  went  again  to  the 
Parrot  and  said,  "  Come,  friend,  let  us  sow  the 
corn." 

Said  the  Parrot,  "  I  can't  come  now,  because  I 
am  whetting  my  bill  on  the  branch  of  a  mango- 
tree." 

So  the  Cat  went  alone  and  sowed  the  corn.  The 
corn  took  root,  and  sprouted,  and  put  forth  the 
blade,  and  the  ear,  and  the  ripe  corn  in  the  ear. 

103 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Then  the  Cat  went  again  to  the  Parrot  and  said, 
"  Come,  friend,  let  us  go  and  gather  in  the  harvest." 

Said  the  Parrot,  "  I  can't  come  now,  because  I  am 
whetting  my  bill  on  the  branch  of  a  mango-tree." 

So  the  Cat  went  alone  and  gathered  in  the  har- 
vest. She  put  it  away  in  barns  and  made  ready  for 
the  threshing.  Then  she  went  again  to  the  Parrot 
and  said,  "  Come,  friend,  let  us  winnow  the  grain 
from  the  chaff." 

Said  the  Parrot,  "  I  can't  come  now,  because  I 
am  whetting  my  bill  on  the  branch  of  a  mango- 
tree." 

So  the  Cat  went  alone  and  winnowed  the  grain 
from  the  chaff.  Then  she  went  again  to  the  Parrot 
and  said,  "  Come,  friend,  the  grain  is  all  win- 
nowed and  sifted.  Come  and  let  us  divide  it  be- 
tween us." 

"I  will,"  shrieked  the  Parrot  so  loudly  that  he 
lost  his  balance,  fell  from  the  branch  of  the  mango- 
tree,  and  cracked  open  his  poll.  That  put  an  end  to 
him.  So  the  Cat  had  all  the  grain  for  herself. 

—  EASTERN  FOLK  TALE 


THE    TABLE    AND    THE    CHAIR 

SAID  the  Table  to  the  Chair, 
"  You  can  hardly  be  aware 
How  I  suffer  from  the  heat 
And  from  chilblains  on  my  feet. 
104 


STORIES 

If  we  took  a  little  walk, 
We  might  have  a  little  talk; 
Pray  let  us  take  the  air/' 
Said  the  Table  to  the  Chair. 

Said  the  Chair  unto  the  Table, 

"  Now  you  know  we  are  not  able ; 

How  foolishly  you  talk, 

When  you  know  we  cannot  walk !  " 

Said  the  Table,  with  a  sigh, 

"  It  can  do  no  harm  to  try, 

I  Ve  as  many  legs  as  you, 

Why  can't  we  walk  on  two?" 

So  they  both  went  slowly  down 
And  walked  about  the  town 
With  a  cheerful  bumpy  sound 
As  they  toddled  round  and  round; 
And  all  the  people  cried, 
As  they  hastened  to  their  side, 
"  See !    the  Table  and  the  Chair 
Have  come  out  to  take  the  air!  " 

But  in  going  down  an  alley 
To  a  castle  in  a  valley, 
They  completely  lost  their  way 
And  wandered  all  the  day; 
Till,  to  see  them  safely  back, 
They  paid  a  Ducky-quack,  ' 
And  a  Beetle  and  a  Mouse 
Who  took  them  to  their  house. 

105 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Then  they  whispered  to  each  other, 
"O  delightful  little  brother, 
What  a  lovely  walk  we  Ve  taken ! 
Let  us  dine  on  beans  and  bacon/' 
So  the  Ducky  and  the  leetle 
Browny-Mousy  and  the  Beetle 
Dined  and  danced  upon  their  heads 
Till  they  toddled  to  their  beds. 

—  EDWARD  LEAR 


THE    WONDERFUL    SHIP 

"  ONCE  upon  a  time/'  said  the  stork,  "  and  a  very 
good  time  it  was,  there  \vas  a  ship,  a  wonderful 
ship  that  could  sail  on  land,  dry  land/' 
"Oh!"    said  the  chicks. 

"  I  know  what  I  tell," 

Cried  the  stork, 
"•I  know  it  well,  very  well, 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes." 

'  This  wonderful  ship  went  on  legs,"   said  the 
stork.     "  Long  legs." 

"  Oh !  "    said  the  chicks  and  the  ducklings. 

"  I  know  what  I  tell, 
I  know  what  I  tell," 
Shouted  the  stork, 
"  I  know  it  well,  very  well, 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes." 
1 06 


STORIES 

"  It  had  a  head,  and  a  neck  that  came  down  and 
went  up  like  a  hook,"  said  the  stork,  "  a  big  hook." 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  chicks  and  the  ducklings  and 
the  little  turkeys. 

"  1  know  what  I  tell," 
I  know  what  I  tell," 
Shrieked  the  stork, 
"  I  know  it  well,  very  well, 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes." 

"  It  had  a  hump  on  its  back,"  said  the  stork,  "  a 
hump  or  two." 

"Oh!"  said  the  chicks  and  the  ducklings  and 
the  little  turkeys  and  the  goslings. 

"  I  know  what  I  tell, 
I  know  what  I  tell," 

Cried  the  stork, 
"  I  know  it  well,  very  well, 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes." 

"It  was  —  alive!"  said  the  stork,  opening  his 
eyes  and  his  mouth  up  so  high  that  he  could  hardly 
get  them  down  again. 

"  Ah,  it  was  n't  a  real  ship  at  all,"  whispered  the 
chicks  to  the  ducklings,  and  they  whispered  it  to 
the  little  turkeys,  and  they  whispered  it  to  the 
goslings. 

"  It  was  a  camel,"  said  the  stork. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  chicks,  the  duck- 
107 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

lings,  the  little  turkeys,  and  the  goslings.  And  they 
crowded  around  him. 

"He's  called  the  ship  of  the  desert,"  said  the 
stork.  And  he  drew  back  to  see  what  they  thought 
of  it. 

"Why?"  asked  the  chicks,  the  ducklings,  the 
little  turkeys,  and  the  goslings. 

"  Ask  your  teacher/'  said  he,  flying  off  to  his 
nest  in  the  chimney  top; 

"  I  must  attend  to  my  babies. 
Go  to  school ; 
If  you  don't, 
You  '11  turn  out  geese  and  gabies." 

At  this  minute,  by  great  good  luck,  they  heard 
Nan  say  to  Ned,  her  brother,  "  Let 's  play  school. 
I  '11  be  the  teacher."  So  they  went  to  school. 

And  by  great  good  luck  Ned's  lesson  was  about 
camels.  "  I  'm  not  at  all  surprised,"  whispered  the 
smallest  chick  to  the  biggest  gosling;  "I  found  a 
four-leaf  clover  in  the  grass  this  morning.  I  knew 
then  we  should  have  good  luck." 

They  listened  with  all  their  might  to  the  lesson, 
and  when  they  found  it  too  hard  they  stopped  lis- 
tening to  talk  it  over.  This  was  pretty  often.  So 
when  they  went  home  they  knew  as  much  about 
camels  as  the  stork  does,  and  maybe  as  much  as 
you  know.  — ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


108 


STORIES 


THE    CLEVER   GEESE 

A  LONG,  long  time  ago  when  there  were  more  foxes' 
dens  than  cats'  cradles,  there  lived  a  very  sly  fox. 
Every  evening  this  sly  fox  sneaked  up  through  the 
tall  grass  and  weeds  and  around  the  tree-trunks, 
pounced  upon  a  plump  young  goose,  and  carried  it 
off  to  his  den. 

First,  he  had  one  hidden  away,  then  two,  then 
three,  then  four,  then  five,  then  six,  and  by  and 
by  as  many  more. 

Well,  when  he  had  a  round  dozen,  he  called  them 
before  him  in  a  circle,  fixed  them  with  his  bold 
sharp  eyes,  and  said,  "  My  dumplings,  prepare  to  die. 
At  moonlight,  to-night,  I  dine  on  young  goose." 

"  You  '11  surely  give  us  time  to  say  good-by," 
cried  the  poor  simpletons,  who  suddenly  turned 
clever  to  save  their  necks.  "  We  have  become  the 
dearest  of  friends." 

:<  With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  fox,  with  a  bow. 
'  Take  as  much  time  as  you  like,  my  dainties,  for 
the  sweet  parting."  And  off  he  went. 

One  silly  goose  began  to  giggle  at  their  cleverness 
before  he  was  out  of  earshot.  But  her  sisters  ran 
at  her  and  pecked  her  into  silence.  They  laughed 
with  their  eyes  only,  and  so  long  as  the  fox  kept 
walking  away  and  not  looking  back  that  was  per- 
fectly safe. 

109 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Well,  at  moonlight,  sure  enough,  the  fox  came 
home  to  dine.  And  at  once  the  geese  began  to  say 
good-by. 

"  Ga-ga-ga-ga-ga- "  said  one.  And  when  he 
stopped  for  breath,  "  Ga-ga-ga-ga-  "  said  another. 
And,  when  he  stopped,  another  took  it  up.  And 
after  that,  another  and  another. 

So,  for  all  I  know,  they  are  at  it  still.  The  fox 
has  not  yet  dined,  and  the  geese  are  alive  and  gab- 
bling, though,  as  the  story  says  at  the  beginning,  it 
all  happened  a  very  long  time  ago,  before  any  of  us 
were  born.  —  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


THE    HAPPY    PRINCE 

(Especially  suitable  in  winter  season) 

HIGH  above  the  city,  on  a  tall  column,  stood  the 
statue  of  the  Happy  Prince.  He  was  gilded  all  over 
with  thin  leaves  of  fine  gold,  for  eyes  he  had  two 
bright  sapphires,  and  a  large  red  ruby  glowed  on 
his  sword-hilt. 

"Why  can't  you  be  like  the  Happy  Prince?" 
asked  a  mother  of  her  little  boy  who  was  crying  for 
the  moon.  "  The  Happy  Prince  never  dreams  of 
crying  for  anything." 

"  I  am  glad  there  is  some  one  in  the  world  who 
is  quite  happy,"  muttered  a  disappointed  man  as  he 
gazed  at  the  wonderful  statue. 

no 


STORIES 

"  He  looks  just  like  an  angel,"  said  the  Orphan 
Children,  as  they  came  out  of  the  cathedral. 

"  How  do  you  know?"  said  the  Mathematical 
Master,  "  you  have  never  seen  one." 

"  Ah !  but  we  have,  in  our  dreams,"  answered 
the  children;  and  the  Mathematical  Master 
frowned  and  looked  very  severe,  for  he  did  not 
approve  of  dreaming. 

One  night  there  flew  over  the  city  a  little  Swal- 
low. His  friends  had  gone  away  to  Egypt  six 
weeks  before,  but  he  had  stayed  behind  with  the 
beautiful  Reed.  He  had  seen  her  early  in  the 
spring  as  he  was  flying  down  the  river  after  a  big 
yellow  moth,  and  had  stopped  to  talk  to  her. 

"Shall  I  love  you?"  said  he.  "Shall  I  love 
you  ?  "  And  the  Reed  made  him  a  low  bow.  So  he 
flew  round  and  round  her,  touching  the  water  with 
his  wings,  and  making  silver  ripples.  This  lasted 
through  the  summer. 

Then,  when  the  autumn  .came,  the  other  swal- 
lows all  flew  away.  After  they  had  gone  he  felt 
lonely. 

"  I  am  off  to  the  Pyramids,"  said  he  to  the  Reed. 
"  Good-by!  "  and  he  flew  after  them. 

All  day  long  he  flew,  and  at  night-time  he  ar- 
rived at  the  city.  "Where  shall  I  put  up?"  he 
said;  "I  hope  the  town  has  made  preparations." 

Then  he  saw  the  statue  on  the  tall  column. 
•"I  will  put  up  there,"  he  cried;    "it  is  a  high 
in 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

place  with  plenty  of  fresh  air."  So  he  alighted 
just  between  the  feet  of  the  Happy  Prince. 

"  I  have  a  golden  bedroom/'  he  said  softly  to 
himself  as  he  looked  round  and  prepared  to  go 
to  sleep;  but  as  he  was  putting  his  head  under 
his  wing  a  large  drop  of  water  fell  on  him.  "  What 
a  curious  thing! "  he  cried;  "  there  is  not  a  single 
cloud  in  the  sky,  the  stars  are  quite  clear  and 
bright,  and  yet  it  is  raining.  The  climate  in  the 
north  of  Europe  is  really  dreadful." 

Then  another  drop  fell. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  a  statue  if  it  cannot  keep 
the  rain  off?  "  he  said;  "  I  must  look  for  a  good 
chimney-pot,"  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  fly  away. 

But  before  he  had  opened  his  wings,  a  third  drop 
fell,  and  he  looked  up  and  saw  —  Ah !  what  did 
he  see? 

The  eyes  of  the  Happy  Prince  were  filled  with 
tears,  and  tears  were  running  down  his  golden 
cheeks.  His  face  was  so  beautiful  in  the  moonlight 
that  the  little  Swallow  was  filled  with  pity. 

"Who  are  you?"    he  said. 

"  I  am  the  Happy  Prince." 

"  Why  are  you  weeping  then  ?  "  asked  the  Swal- 
low. "  You  have  quite  drenched  me." 

"  When  I  was  alive  and  had  a  heart  to  feel,"  an- 
swered the  statue,  "  I  lived  in  a  palace.  In  the 
daytime  I  played  with  my  companions  in  the  gar- 
den, and  in  the  evening  I  led  the  dance  in  the  Great 

112 


STORIES 

Hall.  Round  the  garden  ran  a  very  lofty  wall,  but 
I  never  cared  to  ask  what  lay  beyond  it.  My  cour- 
tiers called  me  the  Happy  Prince.  So  I  lived  and 
died.  And  now  that  I  am  dead  they  have  set  me 
up  here  so  high  that  I  can  see  all  the  ugliness  and 
all  the  misery  of  my  city,  and  though  my  heart  is 
made  of  lead,  yet  I  cannot  choose  but  weep/' 

"  What !  is  he  not  solid  gold  ?  "  said  the  Swal- 
low to  himself.  He  was  too  polite  to  make  any 
personal  remarks  out  loud. 

"  Far  away,"  continued  the  statue,  "  far  away  in 
a  little  street  there  is  a  poor  house.  One  of  the 
windows  is  open,  and  through  it  I  can  see  a  woman 
seated  at  a  table.  Her  face  is  thin  and  worn,  and 
she  has  coarse,  red  hands,  all  pricked  by  the  needle, 
for  she  is  a  seamstress.  She  is  embroidering  flow- 
ers on  a  satin  gown  for  the  loveliest  of  the  queen's 
maids-of-honor  to  wear  at  the  next  court-ball.  In 
a  bed  in  the  corner  of  the  room  her  little  boy  is 
lying  ill.  He  has  a  fever,  and  is  asking  for  oranges. 
His  mother  has  nothing  to  give  him  but  river 
water,  so  he  is  crying.  Swallow,  Swallow,  little 
Swallow,  will  you  not  take  her  the  ruby  out  of  my 
sword-hilt?  My  feet  are  fastened  to  this  pedestal 
and  I  cannot  move." 

"  I  am  waited  for  in  Egypt,"  said  the  Swallow. 
"  My  friends  are  flying  up  and  down  the  Nile." 

"  Swallow,  Swallow,  little  Swallow,"  said  the 
Prince,  "  will  you  not  stay  with  me  for  one  night, 

"3 


STORIES  AND  STORYTELLING 

and  be  my  messenger?  The  boy  is  so  thirsty,  and 
the  mother  so  sad." 

"  I  don't  think  I  like  boys/'  answered  the  Swal- 
low. "  Last  summer,  when  I  was  staying  on  the 
river,  there  were  two  rude  boys,  the  miller's  sons, 
who  were  always  throwing  stones  at  me.  They 
never  hit  me,  of  course;  we  swallows  fly  far  too 
well  for  that,  and  besides,  I  come  of  a  family 
famous  for  its  swiftness;  but  still  it  was  a  mark  of 
disrespect." 

But  the  Happy  Prince  looked  so  sad  that  the 
little  Swallow  was  sorry.  "  It  is  very  cold  here," 
he  said ;  "  but  I  will  stay  with  you  for  one  night 
and  be  your  messenger." 

"  Thank  you,  little  Swallow,"   said  the  Prince. 

So  the  Swallow  picked  out  the  great  ruby  from 
the  Prince's  sword,  and  flew  away  with  it  in  his 
beak  over  the  roofs  of  the  town. 

He  passed  by  the  cathedral  tower,  where  the 
white  marble  angels  were  sculptured.  He  passed 
by  the  place  and  heard  a  beautiful  girl  say,  "  I 
hope  my  dress  will  be  ready  in  time  for  the  State- 
ball.  I  have  ordered  flowers  to  be  embroidered  on 
it;  but  the  seamstresses  are  so  lazy." 

At  last  he  came  to  the  poor  house  and  looked  in. 
The  boy  was  tossing  feverishly  on  his  bed,  and  the 
mother  had  fallen  asleep,  she  was  so  tired.  In  he 
hopped,  and  laid  the  great  ruby  on  the  table  beside 
the  woman's  thimble.  Then  he  flew  gently  round 

114 


STORIES 

the  bed,  fanning  the  boy's  forehead  with  his  wings. 
"  How  cool  I  feel/'  said  the  boy,  "  I  must  be  get- 
ting better;  "  and  he  sank  into  a  delicious  slumber. 

Then  the  Swallow  flew  back  to  the  Happy  Prince. 
"  It  is  strange,"  he  remarked,  "  but  I  feel  quite 
warm  now,  although  it  is  so  cold." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  done  a  good  action," 
said  the  Prince.  And  the  little  Swallow  began  to 
think,  and  then  he  fell  asleep.  Thinking  always 
made  him  sleepy. 

When  day  broke  he  flew  down  to  the  river  and 
had  a  bath.  "  What  a  remarkable  phenomenon," 
said  the  Bird  Professor  as  he  was  passing  over  the 
bridge.  "  A  swallow  in  winter !  "  And  he  wrote 
a  long  letter  about  it  to  the  local  newspaper. 

'  To-night  I  go  to  Egypt,"  said  the  Swallow, 
and  he  was  in  high  spirits.  He  visited  all  the  public 
monuments,  and  sat  a  long  time  on  top  of  the 
church  steeple.  Wherever  he  went  the  Sparrows 
chirruped,  and  said  to  each  other,  "  What  a  dis- 
tinguished stranger!"  so  he  enjoyed  himself  very 
much. 

When  the  moon  rose  he  flew  back  to  the  Happy 
Prince.  "  Have  you  any  commissions  for  Egypt?  " 
he  cried;  "  I  am  just  starting." 

"  Swallow,  Swallow,  little  Swallow,"  said  the 
Prince,  "  will  you  not  stay  with  me  one  night 
longer?" 

"  I  am  waited  for  in  Egypt,"  answered  the  Swal- 

"5 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

low.  "  To-morrow  my  friends  will  fly  up  to  the 
Second  Cataract.  The  river-horse  couches  there 
among  the  bulrushes.  At  noon  the  lions  come  down 
to  the  water's  edge  to  drink.  They  have  eyes  like 
green  beryls,  and  their  roar  is  louder  than  the  roar 
of  the  cataract/' 

"  Swallow,  Swallow,  little  Swallow,"  said  the 
Prince,  "  far  away  across  the  city  I  see  a  young  man 
in  a  garret.  He  is  leaning  over  a  desk  covered  with 
papers.  He  is  trying  to  finish  a  play,  but  he  is 
too  cold  to  write  any  more.  There  is  no  fire  in  the 
grate,  and  hunger  has  made  him  faint." 

"  I  will  wait  with  you  one  night  longer,"  said  the 
Swallow,  who  really  had  a  good  heart.  "  Shall  I 
take  him  another  ruby  ?  " 

"  Alas!  "  said  the  Prince;  "  my  eyes  are  all  that 
I  have  left.  But  they  are  made  of  rare  sapphires, 
brought  out  of  India  a  thousand  years  ago.  Pluck 
out  one  of  them  and  take  it  to  him.  He  will  sell  it 
to  the  jeweler,  and  buy  food  and  firewood,  and 
finish  his  play." 

"  Dear  Prince,"  said  the  Swallow,  "  I  cannot  do 
that; "  and  he  began  to  weep. 

u  Swallow,  Swallow,  little  Swallow,"  said  the 
Prince,  "  do  as  I  command  you." 

So  the  Swallow  plucked  out  the  Prince's  eye,  and 
flew  away  to  the  student's  garret.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  get  in,  as  there  was  a  hole  in  the  roof. 
Through  this  he  darted,  and  came  into  the  room. 

116 


STORIES 

The  young  man  had  his  head  buried  in  his  hands, 
so  he  did  not  hear  the  flutter  of  the  bird's  wings, 
and  when  he  looked  up  he  found  the  beautiful 
sapphire. 

"  Now  I  can  finish  my  play/'  he  cried,  and  he 
looked  quite  happy. 

The  next  day  the  Swallow  fle\v  down  to  the 
harbor.  He  sat  on  the  mast  of  a  large  vessel  and 
watched  the  sailors  hauling  big  chests  out  of  the 
hold  with  ropes.  "  Heave  a-hoy !  "  they  shouted 
as  each  chest  came  up.  "  I  am  going  to  Egypt/' 
cried  the  Swallow, /but  nobody  minded,  and  when 
the  moon  rose  he  flew  back  to  the  Happy  Prince. 

"  I  am  come  to  bid  you  good-by/'  he  cried. 

"  Swallow,  Swallow,  little  Swallow,"  said  the 
Prince,  "  will  you  not  stay  with  me  one  night 
longer?" 

"  It  is  winter,"  answered  the  Swallow,  "  and  the 
chill  snow  will  soon  be  here.  In  Egypt  the  sun  is 
warm  on  the  green  palm-trees,  and  the  crocodiles 
lie  in  the  mud.  My  companions  are  building  a  nest. 
Dear  Prince,  I  must  leave  you,  but  I  will  never 
forget  you,  and  next  spring  I  will  bring  you  back 
two  beautiful  jewels  in  place  of  those  you  have 
given  away.  The  ruby  shall  be  redder  than  a  red 
rose,  and  the  sapphire  shall  be  as  blue  as  the  great 
sea." 

"  In  the  square  below,"  said  the  Happy  Prince, 
"  there  stands  a  little  match-girl.  She  has  let  her 

117 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

matches  fall  in  the  gutter,  and  they  are  all  spoiled. 
Her  father  will  beat  her  if  she  does  not  take  home 
some  money,  and  she  is  crying.  She  has  no  shoes 
or  stockings,  and  her  little  head  is  bare.  Pluck 
out  my  other  eye,  and  give  it  to  her,  and  her  father 
will  not  beat  her/' 

"  I  will  stay  with  you  one  night  longer,"  said  the 
Swallow,  "  but  I  cannot  pluck  out  your  eye.  You 
would  be  quite  blind  then." 

"  Swallow,  Swallow,  little  Swallow,"  said  the 
Prince,  "  do  as  I  command  you." 

So  he  plucked  out  the  Prince's  other  eye,  and 
darted  down  with  it.  He  swooped  past  the  match- 
girl,  and  slipped  the  jewel  into  the  palm  of  her 
hand.  "  What  a  lovely  bit  of  glass !  "  cried  the  little 
girl;  and  she  ran  home,  laughing. 

Then  the  Swallow  came  back  to  the  Prince. 
6  You  are  blind  now,"  he  said,  "  so  I  will  stay  with 
you  always." 

"  No,  little  Swallow,"  said  the  poor  Prince,  "  you 
must  go  away  to  Egypt." 

"  I  will  stay  with  you  always,"  said  the  Swallow, 
and  he  slept  at  the  Prince's  feet. 

All  the  next  day  he  sat  on  the  Prince's  shoulder, 
and  told  him  stories  of  what  he  had  seen  in  strange 
lands.  He  told  him  of  the  red  ibises,  who  stand  in 
long  rows  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  and  catch  gold- 
fish in  their  beaks ;  and  of  the  Sphinx,  who  is  as  old 
as  the  world  itself,  and  lives  in  the  desert,  and 
knows  everything.  Ixg 


STORIES 

"  Dear  little  Swallow/'  said  the  Prince,  "  you 
tell  me  of  marvelous  things,  but  fly  over  my  city, 
little  Swallow,  and  tell  me  what  you  see  there." 

So  the  Swallow  flew  over  the  great  city,  and  saw 
the  rich  making  merry  in  their  beautiful  houses, 
while  the  beggars  were  sitting  at  the  gates.  He 
flew  into  dark  lanes,  and  saw  the  white  faces  of 
starving  children  looking  out  listlessly  at  the  black 
streets.  Under  the  archway  of  a  bridge  two  little 
boys  were  lying  in  one  another's  arms  to  try  and 
keep  themselves  warm.  "  How  hungry  we  are !  " 
they  said.  "  You  must  not  lie  here,"  shouted  the 
Watchman,  and  they  wandered  out  into  the  rain. 

Then  he  flew  back  and  told  the  Prince  what  he 
had  seen. 

"  I  am  covered  with  fine  gold,"  said  the  Prince, 
"  you  must  take  it  off,  leaf  by  leaf,  and  give  it  to 
my  poor." 

Leaf  after  leaf  of  the  fine  gold  the  Swallow 
picked  off,  till  the  Happy  Prince  looked  quite  dull 
and  gray.  Leaf  after  leaf  of  the  fine  gold  he  took 
to  the  poor.  "  We  have  bread  now !  "  they  cried. 
And  the  children's  faces  grew  rosier,  and  they 
laughed  and  played  games  in  the  street. 

Then  the  snow  came,  and  after  the  snow  came 
the  frost.  The  streets  looked  as  if  they  were  made 
of  silver,  they  were  so  bright  and  glistening;  long 
icicles  like  crystal  daggers  hung  down  from  the 
eaves  of  the  houses. 

119 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

The  poor  little  Swallow  grew  colder  and  colder, 
but  he  would  not  leave  the  Prince;  he  loved  him 
too  well.  He  picked  up  crumbs  outside  the  baker's 
door,  and  tried  to  keep  himself  warm  by  flapping 
his  wings. 

But  at  last  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  die. 
He  had  just  strength  to  fly  up  to  the  Prince's 
shoulder  once  more.  "  Good-by,  dear  Prince!" 
he  murmured.  "  Will  you  let  -  me  kiss  your 
hand?" 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  are  going  to  Egypt  at 
last,  little  Swallow,"  said  the  Prince,  "  you  have 
stayed  too  long  here ;  but  kiss  me  on  the  lips,  for  I 
love  you." 

"  It  is  not  to  Egypt  that  I  am  going,"  said  the 
Swallow.  "  I  am  going  to  Death.  Death  is  the 
brother  of  Sleep,  is  he  not?" 

And  he  kissed  the  happy  Prince  on  the  lips,  and 
fell  down  dead  at  his  feet. 

At  that  moment  a  curious  crack  sounded  inside 
the  statue,  as  if  something  had  broken.  The  fact 
is  that  the  leaden  heart  had  snapped  in  two.  It 
certainly  was  a  hard  frost. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  Mayor  was  walking 
in  the  square  below  in  company  with  the  Town 
Councilors.  As  they  passed  the  column  he  looked 
up  at  the  statue.  "  Dear  me !  how  shabby  the 
Happy  Prince  looks !  "  he  said. 

"  How  shabby  indeed !  "  cried  the  Town  Coun- 
120 


STORIES 

cilors,  who  always  agreed  with  the  Mayor,  and 
they  went  up  to  look  at  it. 

"  The  ruby  has  fallen  out  of  his  sword,  his  eyes 
are  gone,"  said  the  Mayor;  "  in  fact,  he  is  little 
better  than  a  beggar !  " 

So  they  pulled  down  the  statue  of  the  Happy 
Prince  and  sent  it  to  be  melted  in  a  furnace. 

"What  a  strange  thing!"  said  the  overseer  of 
the  workmen  at  the  foundry.  "  Thjs  broken  lead 
heart  will  not  melt  in  the  furnace.  We  must  throw 
it  away/'  So  they  threw  it  on  a  dust-heap  where 
the  dead  Swallow  was  also  lying. 

"  Bring  me  the  two  precious  things  in  the  city," 
said  God  to  one  of  His  Angels ;  and  the  Angel  took 
Him  the  leaden  heart  and  the  dead  bird. 

"  You  have  chosen  rightly,"  said  God ;  "  in  my 
garden  of  Paradise  this  little  bird  shall  sing  for 
evermore,  and  in  my  city  of  gold  the  Happy  Prince 
shall  praise  me."  —  OSCAR  WILDE 


THE    DWARF    ROOTS'    STORY    OF   THE 
PUMPKIN    SEED 

DID  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  Pumpkin  Seed 
that  made  a  feast  of  his  insides,  and  found  his  out- 
sides  changed  most  surprisingly,  and  went  down  a 
pig's  throat  and  was  happy?  Ever  since  it  hap- 
pened the  Dwarf  Roots,  who  live  below  the  ground, 

121 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

tell  it  to  the  pumpkin  seeds.  They  say  they  heard 
it  from  the  wind  one  day  when  the  farmer's  spade 
laid  the  ground  open  and  let  the  wind  in.  And  the 
wind  says  he  heard  the  farm  children's  grand- 
mother tell  it.  And  she  says  she  heard  it  from  her 
grandmother.  So  you  see  it  is  an  old  story,  and 
time  you  heard  it.  Then 

Throw  the  nuts  in 

And  let  us  straight  begin. 

Before  the  Dwarf  Roots  tell  the  story  they  stroke 
their  beards  that  have  grown  fast  into  the  ground, 
like  hairy  threads,  and  cry  out,  "  Once  upon  a, 
twice  upon  a,  thrice  upon  a  time ;  "  and  all  the 
little  pumpkin  seeds  lying  low  in  the  ground  know 
a  story  is  coming  and  swell  with  joy.  After  that 
the  Dwarf  Roots  tell  the  story  as  ?t  was  told  to 
me.  So 

Throw  the  nuts  in 

And  turn  the  first  about, 

And  let 's  not  stop  again 

Until  the  tale  is  out. 

Here  's  the  tale. 

Early  in  the  spring,  when  things  with  legs  all 
walk  abroad  and  garden  folks  are  born,  a  little 
Pumpkin  Seed  stuck  his  head  above  ground.  He 
arrived  with  his  cap  on,  as  pumpkin  seeds  do,  but 
as  soon  as  possible  he  shook  it  off,  and  looked  about 
him  to  find  out  what  to  do  next.  And  who  should 

122 


STORIES 

he  see  come  trotting  down  the  garden  path  toward 
him  but  a  little  sniffing,  squealing  pig,  poking  his 
snout  into  everything  and  gobbling  it  up ! 

Now,  how  he  came  to  know  it  the  little  Pumpkin 
Seed  never  could  tell,  but  all  of  a  sudden  he  sang 
out: 

"  I  'm  for  your  betters, 
Not  you,  piggy  wig, 
When  juicy  I  Ve  grown 

And  round  and  big; 
Then  I  '11  change  into  something 

Which  winks  and  blinks 
And  with  boys  and  girls 

Plays  high  jinks; 
But  when  I  'm  out, 
Snip,  snap,  snout, 
You  may  have  me, 
It 's  your  turn  to  shout." 

The  little  pig  was  so  astonished  that  he  stood 
straight  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  curled  his  tail  in 
a  tight  knot,  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  were  a  per- 
forming pig  in  a  circus.  When  he  was  firm  on  his 
legs  again,  he  was  just  going  to  open  his  mouth, 
when  he  saw  the  farmer  coming  down  the  path,  sd 
he  ran  squealing  from  the  garden.  Some  Dwarf 
Roots  who  tell  the  story  say  he  was  going  to  gobble 
up  the  little  Pumpkin,  and  others  say  he  was  going 
to  answer  in  pig's  rhyme: 

123 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  When  it 's  time  to  shout, 
With  my  sniffy  snout 
I  '11  smell  you  out." 

However  that  may  be,  the  next  time  he  came 
trotting  that  way  he  poked  his  snout  into  a  wire 
netting  the  farmer  had  put  around  the  kitchen 
garden  to  keep  him  out,  so  that  was  the  last  the 
little  Pumpkin  Seed  saw  of  him  for  many  a  long 
day. 

But  the  Pumpkin  Seed  knew  now  what  he  should 
do.  He  stood  up  straight  in  the  sunlight  and  soft 
rain,  and  grew  and  grew  and  covered  himself  with 
blossoms,  and  then  let  them  all  drop  off  except  one. 
And  out  of  that  he  made  a  little  pumpy  pumpkin, 
and  by  harvest  time  he  had  that  so  fat  and  round 
and  yellow  and  juicy  that  the  Dwarf  Roots'  mouths 
water  when  they  tell  of  it. 

The  farmer  gathered  the  Pumpkin  in  a  great 
basket,  and  his  wife  scooped  out  the  splendid  in- 
sides  of  it  and  made  of  them  deep  rich  pies  for  the 
Thanksgiving  feast  that  the  farmer's  family  eat 
together  in  thankfulness  to  God  for  health  and 
plenty.  Everyone  comes  to  the  feast:  grandfather 
and  grandmother  and  uncles  and  aunts  and  all  the 
children,  first  cousins  and  second  cousins  and  third 
cousins  and  fourth  cousins  and  fifth  cousins,  down 
to  the  littlest  babies  that  can  do  nothing,  when 
they  're  not  feeding  and  sleeping,  but  gurgle  and 

124 


STORIES 

crow  at  their  fingers  and  toes.  To  be  sure,  when 
the  grown-ups  bite  into  the  deep  rich  pumpkin  pie 
they  can  do  nothing  either  but  gurgle  and  smack 
their  lips. 

So  it  was  that  the  inside  of  the  Pumpkin  did  its 
part  and  made  a  feast  and  came  to  glory. 

But  what  of  the  outside?  You  shall  hear.  It 
happened  that  very  night. 

The  outside  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  boy  who  could 
work  surprising  changes  in  things.  He  worked  one 
in  the  outside  of  the  Pumpkin.  Some  Dwarf  Roots 
say  he  turned  it  into  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  and  some  say 
into  a  goblin.  Anyway,  there  it  was  that  night, 
stuck  in  the  farmer's  hitching-post  and  changed  most 
surprisingly.  It  had  a  head  that  glowed  like  fire  in 
the  darkness,  and  big  round  eyes  that  winked  and 
blinked  every  time  the  wind  blew,  and  a  mouth  that 
grinned  from  ear  to  ear  when  the  big  boys  and  girls 
made  the  little  ones  run  past  it.  The  little  ones 
would  steal  up  softly,  and  just  when  they  were  near 
the  fiery  head  the  big  ones  would  cry  out,  "  Look 
out,  little  uns,  the  goblin  '11  get  cher  " ;  and  the  little 
ones  would  dash  past,  laughing  and  shrieking. 

So  it  was  that  the  outside  of  the  Pumpkin  did 
its  part  and  played  high  jinks  with  the  children. 
Great  fun  it  was;  and  it  kept  up  until  the  farmer 
called  out,  "  Time  for  bed,  boys  and  girls." 

Just  as  he  said  this  the  wind  put  the  fire  out  of  the 
Pumpkin's  head  and  blew  him  off  the  hitching  post. 

125 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

And  the  next  thing  he  knew  he  was  going  down  a 
pig's  throat,  the  very  piggy  wig  he  met  so  long  ago. 

Snip,  snap,  snout, 
This  tale  's  out : 
The  pig  has  him  nowr, 
And  it 's  his  turn  to  shout. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


A    HORSE'S    STORY 

HERE  is  a  story  told  by  Black  Beauty,  as  pretty 
a  little  horse  as  ever  wore  a  white  star  on  his 
forehead. 

One  day  late  in  the  autumn  my  master  had  a  long 
journey  to  go  on  business.  I  was  put  to  the  dog- 
cart, and  John,  the  coachman,  drove.  There  had 
been  a  great  deal  of  rain,  and  now  the  wind  was 
very  high  and  blew  the  dry  leaves  across  the  road 
in  a  shower.  We  went  along  merrily  till  we  came 
to  the  toll-bar  and  the  low  wooden  bridge.  The 
river  banks  were  rather  high,  and  the  bridge,  in- 
stead of  rising,  went  across  just  level,  so  that  in 
the  middle,  if  the  river  was  full,  the  water  would 
be  nearly  up  to  the  woodwork  and  planks.  But  as 
there  were  good,  substantial  rails  on  each  side, 
people  did  not  mind  it. 

The  man  at  the  gate  said  the  river  was  rising  fast, 
126 


STORIES 

and  he  feared  it  would  be  a  bad  night.  Many  of 
the  meadows  were  under  water,  and  in  one  low  part 
of  the  road  the  water  was  halfway  up  to  my  knees. 
The  bottom  was  good,  however,  and  master  drove 
gently,  so  it  was  no  matter. 

When  we  got  to  the  town  I  had,  of  course,  a  good 
feed,  but  as  the  master's  business  engaged  him  a 
long  time,  we  did  not  start  for  home  till  rather  late 
in  the  afternoon.  The  wind  was  then  much  higher, 
and  I  heard  the  master  say  to  John  we  had  never 
been  out  in  such  a  storm.  And  so  I  thought,  as  we 
went  along  the  skirts  of  a  wood,  where  the  great 
branches  were  swaying  about  like  twigs,  and  the 
rushing  sound  was  terrible. 

"  I  wish  we  were  well  out  of  this  wood,"  said  my 
master. 

'''  Yes,  sir,"  said  John,  "  it  would  be  rather  awk- 
ward if  one  of  these  branches  came  down  on  us." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when 
there  was  a  groan,  and  a  crack,  and  a  splitting 
sound.  And  crashing  down  amongst  the  older  trees 
came  an  oak,  torn  up  by  the  roots.  It  fell  across 
the  road  just  before  us.  I  will  never  say  I  was  not 
frightened,  for  I  was.  I  stopped  still,  and  I  believe 
I  trembled.  Of  course  I  did  not  turn  round  or  run 
away;  I  was  not  brought  up  to  that.  John  jumped 
out  and  in  a  moment  was  at  my  head. 

"  That  came  very  near,"  said  my  master. 
"  What 's  to  be  done  now  ?  " 

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STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

"  Well,  sir,  we  can't  drive  over  that  tree,  nor  yet 
get  round  it.  There  's  nothing  for  us  but  to  go 
back  to  the  four  cross-ways,  and  that  will  be  a  good 
six  miles  before  we  get  round  to  the  wooden  bridge 
again.  It  will  make  us  late,  but  the  horse  is  fresh.'' 

So  back  we  went  and  round  by  the  cross  roads. 
By  the  time  we  got  to  the  bridge  it  was  very  nearly 
dark.  We  could  just  see  that  the  water  was  over 
the  middle  of  it.  As  this  sometimes  happened  when 
there  were  floods,  master  did  not  stop.  We  were 
going  along  at  a  good  pace,  but  the  moment  my  feet 
touched  the  first  part  of  the  bridge,  I  felt  sure  there 
was  something  wrong.  I  dared  not  go  forward,  and 
I  made  a  dead  stop.  "  Go  on,  Beauty/'  said  my 
master,  and  he  gave  me  a  touch  with  the  whip,  but 
I  dared  not  stir.  He  gave  me  a  sharp  cut.  I  jumped, 
but  I  dared  not  go  forward. 

"  There  's  something  wrong,  sir,"  said  John,  and 
he  sprang  out  of  the  dog-cart,  and  came  to  my  head 
and  looked  all  about.  He  tried  to  lead  me  forward. 
"Come  on,  Beauty;  what's  the  matter?"  Of 
course,  I  could  not  tell  him,  but  I  knew  very  well 
that  the  bridge  was  not  safe. 

Just  then  the  man  at  the  toll-gate  on  the  other 
side  ran  out  of  the  house,  tossing  a  torch  about 
violently. 

"  Hoy,  hoy,  hoy!  halloo!   stop!  "  he  cried. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  shouted  my  master. 

"  The  bridge  is  broken  in  the  middle,  and  part  of 
128 


STORIES 

it  is  carried  away;  if  you  come  on  you  '11  be  into  the 
river." 

"  Thank  God !  "  said  my  master.  "  You  Beauty !  " 
said  John,  and  took  the  bridle  and  gently  turned  me 
round  to  the  right-hand  road  by  the  river  side.  The 
sun  had  set  some  time.  The  wind  seemed  to  have 
lulled  off  after  that  furious  blast  which  tore  up  the 
tree.  It  grew  darker  and  darker,  stiller  and  stiller. 
I  trotted  quietly  along,  the  wheels  hardly  making  a 
sound  on  the  soft  road.  For  a  good  while  neither 
master  nor  John  spoke,  and  then  master  began  in 
a  serious  voice.  I  could  not  understand  much  of 
what  they  said,  but  I  found  they  thought  that  if  I 
had  gone  on  as  the  master  wanted  me,  horse,  chaise, 
master,  and  man  would  have  fallen  into  the  river. 
Master  said,  God  had  given  men  reason,  by  which 
they  could  find  out  things  for  themselves;  but  he 
had  given  animals  instinct,  which  did  not  depend  on 
reason,  and  which  was  much  more  prompt  and  per- 
fect in  its  way,  and  by  which  they  had  often  saved 
the  lives  of  men. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  park  gates,  and  found  the 
gardener  looking  out  for  us.  He  said  that  mistress 
had  been  much  alarmed  ever  since  dark,  fearing 
some  accident  had  happened,  and  that  she  had  sent 
James  off  on  Justice,  the  roan  cob,  towards  the 
wooden  bridge  to  make  inquiry  after  us. 

We  saw  a  light  at  the  hall  door  and  at  the  upper 
windows,  and  as  we  came  up,  mistress  ran  out,  say- 

129 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

ing  to  master,  "  Are  you  really  safe,  my  dear?  Oh! 
I  have  been  so  anxious,  fancying  all  sorts  of  things. 
Have  you  had  no  accident  ?  " 

"  No,  but  if  your  Black  Beauty  had  not  been  wiser 
than  we  were,  we  should  all  have  been  carried  down 
the  river  at  the  wooden  bridge/'  I  heard  no  more, 
as  they  went  into  the  house,  and  John  took  me  to 
the  stable.  Oh,  what  a  good  supper  he  gave  me 
that  night,  a  good  bran  mash  and  some  crushed 
beans  with  my  oats,  and  such  a  thick  bed  of  straw ! 
and  I  was  glad  of  it,  for  I  was  tired. 

—  ANNA  SEWELL 


A   BEWITCHED    DONKEY 

THERE  was  once  a  little  donkey  who  lived  with  a 
little  old  woman  and  her  tabby  cat  and  her  rooster 
and  his  hens  and  their  chicks  in  a  little  cottage  out 
in  the  country.  Every  morning,  after  cropping  the 
dewy  grass,  the  little  donkey  used  to  poke  his  head 
in  at  the  cottage  window,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It 's 
time  we  were  off,"  and  the  little  old  woman  used  to 
say,  "  I  '11  be  with  you  in  two  shakes  of  Tabby's 
tail."  Presently  out  she  would  bring  two  baskets 
of  fresh-laid  eggs  from  the  hens  and  hang  them 
across  the  donkey's  back,  and  off  to  market  they  'd 
go.  Tabby  would  stop  washing  her  face  to  wave 
her  paw  at  them,  and  the  little  old  woman  would 
wave  her  hand  back,  and  the  little  donkey  would  turn 

130 


STORIES 

and  wave  his  head.  They  were  as  happy  and  loving 
as  any  people  that  ever  lived  together,  and  the 
donkey  was  the  man  of  the  family. 

But  one  morning  something  got  into  the  donkey. 
He  seemed  to  be  bewitched.  You  shall  hear. 

When  he  had  cropped  the  dewy  grass  as  usual,  he 
poked  his  head  in  at  the  cottage  window,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  It 's  time  we  were  off/'  and  the  little  old 
woman  said,  "  I  '11  be  with  you  in  two  shakes  of 
Tabby's  tail."  But  the  minute  she  came  to  the  door 
with  the  two  baskets  of  fresh-laid  eggs  from  the 
hens,  up  went  the  little  donkey's  heels,  and  away  he 
ran  with  such  a  kick  and  a  run  and  a  run  and  a  kick 
that  the  little  old  woman  could  n't  keep  up  with  him 
were  she  never  so  quick.  All  at  once  she  was  so  sur- 
prised at  him  that  she  stood  stock  still.  Immediately 
stock  still  stood  the  little  donkey  and  laughed  at  her 
till  his  fat  little  sides  shook,  "  Hee  haw,  hee  haw,  hee 
haw."  This  was  too  much  for  the  little  old  woman. 
"  Can  it  be  that  my  own  little  donkey  is  laughing  at 
his  little  old  woman  ?  "  she  said.  And  one  basket  of 
eggs  dropped  smash  on  the  ground  and  she  began  to 
cry. 

At  this  out  came  Tabby,  and  up  came  running  all 
the  hens  and  their  little  chicks  and  the  lordly  rooster, 
and  they  all  rubbed  against  the  little  old  woman's 
skirts,  and  Tabby  miowed,  "  Our  little  old  woman, 
do  not  cry,"  and  the  hens  cackled  it,  and  the  little 
chicks  peeped  it,  and  the  rooster  crowed  it.  And 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

then  they  all  said  it  together,  each  in  his  own 
way. 

"  But  the  man  of  the  family  has  run  away  from 
us  and  he  laughs  at  it,"  said  the  little  old  woman; 
"  whatever  shall  we  do!  " 

"  Let  us  give  him  another  chance,"  said  the  big 
white  hen  with  the  kind  face.  "  Begin  all  over  again 
and  see  what  happens." 

So  the  rooster  led  the  way  back  to  the  yard,  and 
the  hens  followed  him  and  the  little  chicks  followed 
them.  At  the  same  time  Tabby  led  the  way  back 
to  the  cottage  and  the  little  old  woman  followed 
her.  When  the  little  old  woman  was  inside  she 
began  packing  the  one  basket  of  eggs  into  the  two 
baskets.  Well,  sure  enough,  the  little  donkey  did 
his  part,  too.  He  ran  back  and  began  cropping  the 
dewy  grass,  and  then  he  poked  his  head  in  at  the 
cottage  window  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It 's  time  we 
were  off,"  and  the  little  old  woman  in  high  glee 
called  out,  "  I  '11  be  with  you  in  two  shakes  of 
Tabby's  tail." 

But  the  minute  she  came  to  the  door  with  the  two 
baskets  of  fresh-laid  eggs  from  the  hens,  up  went 
the  little  donkey's  heels,  and  away  he  ran  with  such 
a  kick  and  a  run  and  a  run  and  a  kick  that  the  little 
old  woman  could  n't  keep  up  with  him  were  she 
never  so  quick.  And  as  before,  all  at  once  she  was 
so  surprised  at  him  that  she  stood  stock  still.  Im- 
mediately stock  still  stood  the  little  donkey  and 

132 


STORIES 

laughed  at  her  till  his  fat  little  sides  shook,  "  Hee 
haw,  hee  haw,  hee  haw."  And,  as  before,  this  was 
too  much  for  the  little  old  woman.  "  Can  it  be  that 
my  own  little  donkey  is  laughing  at  his  little  old 
woman?"  she  said.  And  one  basket  of  eggs 
dropped  smash  on  the  ground  and  she  began  to  cry. 

At  this  out  came  Tabby,  and  up  came  running  all 
the  hens  and  their  little  chicks  and  the  lordly  rooster, 
and  they  all  rubbed  against  the  little  old  woman's 
skirts,  and  Tabby  miowed,  "  Our  little  old  woman, 
do  not  cry/'  and  the  hens  cackled  it,  and  the  little 
chicks  peeped  it,  and  the  rooster  crowed  it.  And 
then  they  all  said  it  together,  each  in  his  own  way. 

So  it  was  of  no  use. 

But  at  last  the  little  old  woman  thought  of  a  plan, 
such  an  easy  thing,  too,  and  sure  to  be  what  a  little 
old  woman  would  think  of  sooner  or  later  to  keep 
the  man  of  the  family.  Instead  of  staying  in  the 
cottage,  when  they  went  back  to  try  it  over  a  third 
time,  she  went  out  by  a  back  door  and  crept  around 
the  side  of  the  house.  When  the  donkey  poked  his 
head  in  at  the  window  she  ran  out,  caught  him  by 
the  heels,  shoved  him  in,  jumped  in  after  him,  and 
held  him.  The  lordly  rooster  and  the  hen  and  the 
little  chicks  were  watching,  and  they  ran  in  and  shut 
both  doors  fast.  And  then  they  all  waited  and  lis- 
tened, and  presently  the  donkey  began  to  explain 
himself. 

The  moonlight  the  night  before  was  so  strong, 

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STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

he  said,  that  it  woke  him  up.  As  he  opened  his  eyes 
he  heard  little  voices,  as  sweet  as  silver  bells,  singing, 

"  O  lovely  moon,  queen  of  the  night, 
Beautiful  moon,  glorious  and  bright, 
Hail,  all  hail!" 

He  looked  out  of  his  shed  into  the  moonlight,  and 
there  on  the  green  he  saw  the  most  exquisite  fairies, 
with  wings  shining  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow, hand  in  hand  with  big-eyed  tiny  elves  with 
bumpy  heads  and  little  legs.  They  were  all  dancing 
in  a  ring  and  looking  up  at  the  moon.  And  the 
moon  was  gazing  down  at  them. 

Now  he  knew  very  well  that  the  fairy  folk  do  not 
like  to  be  spied  on;  he  had  often  heard  the  little 
old  woman  tell  it  to  her  gossip,  Tabby,  the  cat. 
And  she  had  warned  him  to  stay  in  his  stall  and  not 
go  prying  on  the  night  folk.  And  he  said  he  was 
truly  sorry  now  that  he  did  it,  but  at  the  time  he 
thought  it  would  be  fun.  So  he  stole  up  around  a 
stack  of  hay  near  where  they  were  dancing  in  honor 
of  the  moon,  and  all  at  once  he  gave  such  a  bray 
that  the  fairies  fell  to  the  ground  in  little  swoons, 
and  the  elves  jumped  so  high  into  the  air  that  for  a 
whole  second  he  lost  sight  of  them. 

But  the  moonlight  showed  them  where  he  was. 
Quick  as  a  wink  they  whipped  little  horns  out  of  their 
belts  and  blew  together  three  times.  Up  came  hob- 
bling from  the  shadows  an  old  witch.  She  saw  the 


STORIES 

donkey  at  once,  and  pointing  her  long  finger  at  his 
heels  cried, 

"  Kick  him,  heels, 

Until  he  feels 

Ashamed  to  spy 

At  fairy  reels, 
He-he-he! 

He  must  kick 

And  run  away, 

And  fill  the  air 

With  donkey  bray, 

Until  he  eats 

A  wisp  of  hay 

Given  by  bat 

Or  by  cat." 

Well,  Tabby  was  off  to  a  stable  before  one  shake 
of  her  own  tail,  and  presently  back  she  came  with 
the  wisp  of  hay.  The  little  old  woman  gave  it  to 
the  little  donkey  and  held  her  breath  to  see  what 
would  happen,  and  so  did  Tabby  and  the  lordly 
rooster  and  the  hens  and  the  little  chicks.  No  sooner 
had  the  donkey  swallowed  it  than  he  left  off  kicking 
and  trying  to  run  away ! 

So  now,  of  course,  everything  came  right.  The 
lordly  rooster  led  his  wives  and  children  back  to  the 
henyard,  and  the  little  old  woman  and  the  little 
donkey  set  off  to  market  with  the  eggs  that  had  not 
been  smashed.  Tabby  stopped  washing  her  face  to 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

wave  her  paw  at  them,  and  the  little  old  woman 
waved  her  hand  back,  and  the  little  donkey  turned 
and  waved  his  head. 

And  ever  after  they  were  as  loving  and  happy  as 
any  people  that  ever  lived  together,  and  the  donkey 
was  the  man  of  the  family. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 

THE  STRAW,  THE  COAL,  AND  THE  BEAN 
(Tell  with  stick- figure  blackboard  illustrations.} 

IN  a  village  there  lived  an  old  woman  who  one  day 
gathered  some  beans  from  her  garden  to  cook.  She 
had  a  good  fire  on  the  hearth,  but,  to  make  it  burn 
more  quickly,  she  threw  on  a  handful  of  straw.  As 
she  threw  the  beans  into  the  pot  to  boil,  one  of  them 
fell  on  the  floor  unseen  by  the  old  woman,  not  far 
from  a  wisp  of  straw.  Suddenly  a  glowing  coal 
bounced  out  of  the  fire,  and  fell  close  to  them.  They 
both  started  away,  and  exclaimed,  "  Dear  friend, 
don't  come  near  me  till  you  are  cooler.  Whatever 
brings  you  out  here?  " 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  coal,  "  the  heat  luckily  made 
me  so  strong  that  I  was  able  to  bounce  from  the 
fire.  Had  I  not  done  so,  my  death  would  have  been 
certain,  and  I  should  have  been  burnt  to  ashes  by 
this  time." 

"  I,  too,  have  escaped  with  a  whole  skin,"  said  the 
bean ;  "  for  had  the  old  woman  put  me  into  the  pot 

136 


STORIES 

with  my  comrades,  I  should  have  been  boiled  to 
broth." 

"  I  might  have  shared  the  same  fate/'  said  the 
straw,  "  for  all  my  brothers  were  pushed  into  fire 
and  smoke  by  the  old  woman.  She  seized  sixty 
of  us  at  once,  and  brought  us  in  here  to  take 
away  our  lives,  but  luckily  I  slipped  through  her 
fingers." 

"  Well,  now  what  shall  we  do  with  ourselves  ?  " 
said  the  coal. 

"  I  think,"  answered  the  bean,  "  as  we  have  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  escape  death  together,  we  may  as 
well  be  companions,  and  travel  away  together  to 
some  more  friendly  country." 

This  pleased  the  two  others;  so  they  started  on 
their  journey  together.  After  traveling  a  little  dis- 
tance, they  came  to  a  stream,  over  which  there  was 
no  bridge  of  any  sort. 

Then  the  straw  thought  of  a  plan,  and  said,  "  I 
will  lay  myself  across  the  stream,  so  that  you  may 
step  over  me,  as  if  I  were  a  bridge." 

So  the  straw  stretched  himself  from  one  shore 
to  the  other,  and  the  coal,  who  was  rather  hot- 
headed, tripped  out  quite  boldly  on  the  newly  built 
bridge.  But  when  he  reached  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  and  heard  the  water  rushing  under  him,  he 
was  so  frightened  that  he  stood  still,  and  dared  not 
move  a  step  farther.  The  straw  began  to  burn, 
broke  in  two,  and  fell  into  the  brook.  The  coal  slid 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

after  him,  hissed  as  he  reached  the  water,  and  gave 
up  the  ghost. 

The  bean,  who  had  cautiously  remained  behind 
on  the  shore,  could  not  keep  in  when  she  saw  what 
had  happened,  and  laughed  so  heartily  that  she  burst 
her  sides.  It  would  have  been  all  over  with  her,  too; 
but,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  a  tailor,  out  on  his 
travels,  came  to  rest  by  the  brook,  and  noticed  the 
bean.  He  was  a  kfnd-hearted  man,  so  he  took  a 
needle  and  thread  out  of  his  pocket,  and,  taking  up 
the  bean,  sewed  her  together.  She  thanked  him 
prettily,  but  unfortunately  he  had  only  black  thread 
to  sew  with,  and  so  since  that  time  all  beans  have  a 
black  seam  down  their  sides. 

—  FOLK  TALE 


MOTHER    HOLLE 

THERE  was  once  a  widow  who  had  two  daughters. 
One  of  them  was  pretty  and  industrious,  but  the 
other  was  ugly  and  idle.  Now  the  mother  was  much 
fonder  of  the  ugly  and  idle  one,  because  this  was 
her  own  daughter.  She  made  the  other  do  all  the 
work,  and  be  the  Cinderella  of  the  house.  Every 
day  the  poor  girl  had  to  sit  by  a  well,  in  the  highway, 
and  spin  and  spin  till  her  fingers  bled. 

One  day  as  she  worked  the  shuttle  got  marked 
with  her  blood,  so  she  dipped  it  into  the  well,  to  wash 
the  mark  off.  But  it  dropped  out  of  her  hand  and 

138 


STORIES 

fell  to  the  bottom.  She  began  to  weep,  and  ran  to 
her  mother  and  told  her  of  the  mishap.  But  the 
mother  scolded  her  sharply,  and  was  so  cruel  as  to 
say,  "  As  you  have  let  the  shuttle  fall  in,  you  must 
fetch  it  out  again." 

The  girl  went  back  to  the  well,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  In  the  sorrow  of  her  heart  she  jumped 
into  the  well,  and  lost  her  senses  from  fright. 

When  she  awoke  and  came  to  herself  again,  she 
was  in  a  beautiful  meadow  where  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing and  many  thousands  of  flowers  were  growing. 
Along  this  meadow  she  went,  and  came  to  a  baker's 
oven  full  of  bread,  and  the  bread  cried  out, 

"  Oh,  take  me  out ! 
Take  me  out! 
Or  I  shall  burn; 
I  have  baked  a  long  time !  " 

So  she  went  up  to  it,  and  took  out  all  the  loaves, 
one  after  another,  writh  the  bread-shovel.  After  that 
she  went  on  till  she  came  to  a  tree  covered  with 
apples,  which  called  out  to  her, 

"Oh,  shake  me! 
Shake  me! 
We  apples  are  all  ripe !  " 

So  she  shook  the  tree  till  the  apples  fell  like  rain, 
and  went  on  shaking  till  they  were  all  down,  and 

139 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

when  she  had  gathered  them  into  a  heap,  she  went 
on  her  way. 

At  last  she  came  to  a  little  house  out  of  which 
peeped  an  old  woman.  The  old  woman  had  such 
large  teeth  that  the  girl  was  frightened,  and  was 
about  to  run  away. 

But  the  old  woman  said,  "  What  are  you  afraid 
of,  dear  child?  Stay  with  me;  if  you  will  do  all 
the  work  in  the  house  properly,  you  shall  be  the 
better  for  it.  Only  you  must  take  care  to  make  my 
bed  well,  and  to  shake  it  thoroughly  till  the  feathers 
fly  —  for  then  there  is  snow  on  the  earth.  I  am 
Mother  Holle." 

The  old  woman  spoke  so  kindly  to  her,  the  girl 
took  courage  and  agreed  to  enter  her  service.  She 
did  everything  so  well  that  she  pleased  her  mistress, 
and  always  shook  her  bed  so  vigorously  that  the 
feathers  flew  about  like  snowflakes.  She  had  a 
pleasant  life  with  the  old  woman,  never  an  angry 
word,  and  boiled  or  roast  meat  every  day. 

But  after  she  had  stayed  some  time  with  Mother 
Holle,  she  became  sad.  At  first  she  did  not  know 
what  was  the  matter  with  her,  but  at  last  she  felt 
it  was  homesickness.  Although  she  was  many  thou- 
sand times  better  off  here  than  at  home,  still  she  had 
a  longing  to  be  there.  So  one  day  she  said  to  the 
old  woman,  "  I  wish  I  were  home,  no  matter  how 
well  off  I  am  down  here,  I  cannot  stay  any  longer ; 
I  must  go  up  again  to  my  own  people."  Mother 

140 


STORIES 

Holle  said,  "  I  am  glad  that  you  long  for  your 
home,  and  as  you  have  served  me  so  truly,  I  myself 
will  take  you  up  again."  She  took  her  by  the  hand, 
and  led  her  to  a  large  door.  The  door  opened,  and 
just  as  the  maiden  was  standing  beneath  the  door- 
way, a  heavy  shower  of  golden  rain  fell,  and  all  the 
gold  remained  on  her,  so  that  she  was  covered 
with  it. 

"  You  shall  have  that  because  you  are  so  indus- 
trious/' said  Mother  Holle;  and  at  the  same  time 
she  gave  her  back  the  shuttle  which  the  girl  had  let 
fall  into  the  well.  Then  the  door  closed,  and  the 
maiden  found  herself  up  above  the  earth,  not  far 
from  her  mother's  house. 

As  she  went  into  the  yard,  the  cock  standing  by 
the  well-side  cried, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
Your  golden  girl 's  come  back  to  you!  " 

So  she  went  in  to  her  mother.  And  because  she 
arrived  covered  with  gold,  her  mother  and  sister 
were  glad  to  have  her  back. 

The  girl  told  all  that  had  happened  to  her.  As 
soon  as  the  mother  heard  how  she  had  come  by  so 
much  gold,  she  was  very  anxious  that  the  same  good 
luck  should  come  to  the  ugly  and  lazy  daughter. 
So  she  made  her  seat  herself  by  the  well  and  spin. 
But  the  idle  girl  did  not  work.  To  stain  the  spindle 
with  blood,  she  stuck  her  hand  into  a  thorn  bush  and 

141 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

pricked  her  finger.  Then  she  threw  the  shuttle  into 
the  well,  and  jumped  in  after  it. 

She  came,  like  the  other,  to  the  beautiful  meadow 
and  walked  along  the  very  same  path.  When  she 
came  to  the  oven,  the  bread  again  cried, 

"  Oh,  take  me  out ! 
Take  me  out ! 
Or  I  shall  burn; 
I  have  baked  a  long  time !  " 

But  the  lazy  thing  answered,  "  As  if  I  had  any  wish 
to  make  myself  dirty?  "  and  on  she  went.  Soon  she 
came  to  the  apple-tree,  which  cried, 

"  Oh,  shake  me ! 
Shake  me! 
We  apples  are  all  ripe!  " 

But  she  answered,  "  I  like  that !  One  of  you  might 
fall  on  my  head,"  and  so  went  on. 

When  she  came  to  Mother  Holle's  house,  she  was 
not  afraid,  for  she  had  already  heard  of  her  big 
teeth,  and  she  hired  herself  to  her  immediately. 

The  first  day  she  forced  herself  to  work  diligently, 
and  obeyed  Mother  Holle  when  she  told  her  to  do 
anything,  for  she  was  thinking  of  all  the  gold  she 
would  give  her.  But  on  the  second  day  she  began 
to  be  lazy,  and  on  the  third  day  still  more  so,  and 
then  she  would  not  get  up  in  the  morning  at  all. 

Neither  did  she  make  Mother  Holle's  bed  as  she 
142 


STORIES 

ought,  and  did  not  shake  it  so  as  to  make  the  feathers 
fly  up.  Mother  Holle  was  soon  tired  of  this,  and 
gave  her  notice  to  leave.  The  lazy  girl  was  willing 
enough  to  go,  and  thought  that  now  the  golden  rain 
would  come.  Mother  Holle  led  her,  too,  to  the  great 
door ;  but  while  she  was  standing  beneath  it,  instead 
of  the  gold  a  big  kettle  of  black  pitch  was  emptied 
over  her.  "  That  is  the  reward  of  your  service," 
said  Mother  Holle,  and  shut  the  door. 

So  the  lazy  girl  went  home;  but  she  was  quite 
covered  with  pitch,  and  the  cock  by  the  well-side,  as 
soon  as  he  saw  her,  cried  out, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
Your  pitchy  girl 's  come  back  to  you!  " 

And  the  pitch  stuck  fast  to  her,  and  could  not  be  got 
off  as  long  as  she  lived.  —  FOLK  TALE 


TOM   THUMB 

(Arranged  as  a  continued  story) 
How  HE  CAME  TO  His  MOTHER  AND  FATHER 

LONG,  long  ago,  when,  good  King  Arthur  ruled  in 
Britain,  there  lived  a  magician  named  Merlin.  He 
could  change  himself  into  anything  he  chose,  and 
one  day  when  he  had  changed  himself  into  a  beggar 
he  stopped  at  a  plowman's  cottage  to  ask  for  food. 

i43 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

"  Come  in,  poor  fellow/'  cried  the  plowman, 
"  there  's  always  a  bite  for  another/'  And  the 
plowman's  wife  set  on  the  table  a  bowl  of  milk 
and  a  platter  heaped  with  sweet  brown  bread.  Mer- 
lin was  greatly  pleased  with  the  good  people's  kind- 
ness to  him. 

Now,  by  and  by  he  noticed  that  although  every- 
thing in  the  cottage  was  neat  and  comfortable,  some- 
thing was  troubling  these  kind  people.  So  he  asked 
them  what  it  was. 

"  Ah,"  cried  the  poor  woman,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  "  we  have  no  little  son.  If  I  only  had  a  little 
son,  I  should  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world, 
even  if  he  were  no  bigger  than  my  husband's  thumb." 

Well,  Merlin  said  nothing,  and  when  he  had  rested 
he  went  on  his  way. 

But  he  did  not  forget  the  kind  people's  sorrow. 
As  soon  as  he  could,  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  queen  of 
the  fairies,  and  told  her  about  it  and  begged  her  to 
grant  the  woman's  wish.  Sure  enough,  after  a  time 
the  plowman's  wife  had  a  little  son,  and  lo  and 
behold !  he  was  not  a  bit  bigger  than  her  husband's 
thumb.  While  his  mother  was  admiring  him,  the 
queen  of  the  fairies  came  in  at  the  window.  She 
kissed  the  child  and  called  him  Tom  Thumb.  She 
sent  for  some  of  the  fairies  to  dress  him,  and  she 
herself  told  what  he  should  wear. 

So  the  fairies  came  and  dressed  the  little  man 
according  to  the  queen's  directions : 

144 


STORIES 

"  An  oak  leaf  hat  he  had  for  a  crown ; 
His  shirt  of  web  by  spiders  spun; 
With  jacket  wove  of  thistle  down ; 
His  trousers  were  of  feathers  done. 
His  stockings,  of  apple-rind,  they  tie 
With  eyelash  from  his  mother's  eye; 
His  shoes  were  made  of  mouse's  skin, 
Tann'd  with  the  downy  hair  within." 

So  it  was  that  Tom  Thumb,  the  fairy  mannikin, 
came  into  the  world;  and,  wonderful  to  tell,  he 
never  grew  any  bigger  than  his  father's  thumb. 


TOM   THUMB 

How  HE  GROWS  UP  FULL  OF  TRICKS 

BUT  as  he  got  older  he  grew  to  be  full  of  tricks. 

He  used  to  play  cherry-stones  with  the  boys. 
When  he  had  lost  all  his  own  stones,  he  would  creep 
slyly  into  his  playmates'  bags,  quickly  fill  his  pockets 
with  their  stones,  creep  out  unseen,  and  join  again 
in  the  game. 

One  day  as  he  did  this  the  boy  who  owned  the  bag 
caught  him  at  it.  "  Ah,  ha !  my  little  Tommy,"  he 
cried,  "  at  last  I  have  caught  you  stealing  my  cherry- 
stones. I  '11  teach  you  to  stop  that."  And  he  quickly 
drew  the  string,  shutting  Tom  into  the  bag,  and  gave 
the  bag  such  a  shake  that  the  poor  little  fellow's  legs 

145 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

and  thighs  and  body  were  sadly  bruised.  Tom 
roared  with  pain  and  promised  never  to  do  that 
again. 

So  he  was  cured  of  that  trick. 


TOM   THUMB 

How  HE  HAS  A  NARROW  ESCAPE  FROM  A 
BATTER  PUDDING 

A  SHORT  time  afterwards  Tom's  mother  was  making 
a  batter  pudding  for  supper,  and  inquisitive  little 
Tom  must  of  course  see  how  it  was  made.  So  he 
climbed  up  to  the  edge  of  the  bowl;  but  unfortu- 
nately his  foot  slipped  and  in  he  plumped,  head  and 
ears,  into  the  batter.  His  mother,  poor  woman, 
never  caught  sight  nor  light  of  him,  so  she  stirred 
him  into  the  batter  and  put  it  into  the. pot  to  boil. 

Now,  the  batter  had  filled  Tom's  mouth  and  kept 
him  from  crying  out  to  his  mother.  But  when  he 
felt  the  water  getting  hot,  he  kicked  and  struggled 
so  much  in  the  pot  that  his  mother  thought  the  pud- 
ding must  be  bewitched.  She  pulled  it  out  of  the 
pot  and  threw  it  outdoors.  A  poor  tinker  crying, 
"  Pots  to  mend,  kettles  to  mend/'  was  passing  in  the 
nick  of  time,  so,  thinking  it  would  make  him  a  good 
dinner,  he  stuffed  it  into  his  pack  and  walked 
off  with  it.  By  this  time  Tom's  mouth  was  clear  of 
the  batter,  so  he  yelled  lustily  to  be  let  out.  The 

146 


STORIES 

terrified  tinker  flung  down  his  pack  and  ran  away. 
The  pudding  broke  to  pieces,  and  Tom  crept  out, 
covered  with  batter,  but  glad  to  be  alive  and  to  make 
his  way  home  as  fast  as  he  could. 

When  Tom's  mother  saw  the  state  of  her  darling 
she  was  ready  to  weep.  She  put  him  into  a  teacup 
of  warm  water  and  washed  off  the  mess.  Then,  for- 
getting the  loss  of  her  pudding,  she  kissed  him  and 
tucked  him  into  bed. 


TOM    THUMB 

How  HE  GETS  INTO  THE  RED  Cow's  STOMACH 

WELL,  soon  after  the  batter  pudding  mischief,  Tom's 
mother  went  to  milk  her  cow  in  the  meadow,  and 
she  took  Tom  along  with  her.  As  the  wind  was 
strong  she  was  afraid  he  might  be  blown  away,  so 
she  took  out  of  her  pocket  a  piece  of  fine  thread  and 
tied  him  to  a  thistle.  Then  she  set  about  milking  the 
cow. 

It  was  n't  long  before  the  cow  caught  sight  of 
Tom's  oak  leaf  hat,  and  thrusting  out  her  tongue  she 
took  in  poor  Tom  and  the  thistle  at  a  mouthful. 
Tom  was  terrified.  But  while  the  cow  was  chewing 
the  thistle  he  had  time  to  collect  his  wits,  although  he 
was  afraid  every  minute  her  monstrous  teeth  would 
crush  him  in  pieces.  So  he  roared  out  as  loudly  as 
he  could,  "Moher,  mother!" 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  Where  are  you,  Tommy,  my  darling  ?  where  are 
you?  "  cried  his  mother,  dropping  her  milking. 

"  Here,  mother,"  he  shouted,  "  here,  in  the  red 
cow's  mouth." 

At  this  his  poor  mother  began  to  cry  and  wring 
her  hands,  looking  helplessly  at  the  cow.  But  what 
was  her  joy!  The  cow,  surprised  at  the  odd  noise 
in  her  throat,  opened  her  mouth  and  let  Tom  drop 
out.  Quick  as  a  flash  his  mother  caught  him  up  be- 
fore he  could  fall  to  the  ground,  and  she  ran  home 
with  him. 


TOM    THUMB 

How  HE  COMES  TO  BELONG  TO  THE  KING 

ONE  day  when  Tom  went  into  the  fields  to  drive  the 
cattle  with  a  whip  of  barley  straw  his  father  had 
given  him,  he  slipped  and  rolled  into  one  of  the  fur- 
rows. A  raven  flying  overhead  picked  him  up  and 
flew  with  him  to  the  top  of  a  giant's  castle  near  the 
sea,  and  there  left  him. 

Tom  did  not  know  what  to  do.  But  this  was  not 
the  worst  of  it.  He  heard  a  heavy  tread,  tramp! 
tramp !  and  out  strode  Grumbo,  the  giant  who  owned 
the  castle.  He  saw  Tom,  picked  him  up  and  gulped 
him  down  in  a  twinkling,  as  if  he  were  a  pill.  But 
in  a  minute  he  was  sorry.  For  Tom  began  to  kick 
and  jump  about  so  that  the  giant  could  not  stand 

148 


STORIES 

him  in  his  stomach,  but  rushed  to  the  castle  wall 
and  vomited  him  into  the  sea. 

Well,  the  instant  Tom  struck  the  water  a  great 
fish  swallowed  him.  Soon  a  fisherman  caught  this 
very  fish,  took  it  to  market,  and  there  sold  it  for 
King  Arthur's  own  table.  And  when  the  king's 
cook  cut  the  fish  open,  out  stepped  Tom,  alive  and 
well,  and  stood  on  his  head  for  joy  to  find  himself 
safe  and  free  again.  The  astonished  cook  ran  with 
him  to  the  king,  and  Tom  so  delighted  the  king  and 
queen  and  all  the  knights  of  the  Round  Table  with 
his  tricks  that  the  king  called  him  his  dwarf,  to  make 
fun  for  him  and  the  court. 

In  time  the  king  grew  so  fond  of  Tom  that  he 
took  him  everywhere  with  him,  and  even  let  him 
creep  into  his  pocket  for  shelter  if  it  should  rain 
when  they  were  out  together. 

So  now  Tom  Thumb  was  King  Arthur's  dwarf 
and  lived  at  court. 


TOM   THUMB 
How  HE  CARRIES  MONEY  TO  His  PARENTS 

ONE  day  King  Arthur  asked  Tom  about  his  parents, 
whether  they  were  as  small  as  Tom,  and  whether 
they  were  rich  or  poor.  Tom  told  the  king  his 
father  and  mother  were  as  tall  as  any  of  the  people 
at  court  but  they  were  poor.  At  this  the  king  took 

149 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Tom  into  the  treasury  and  told  him  to  take  home 
to  his  parents  as  much  money  as  he  could  carry. 

Tom  capered  for  joy.  He  ran  off  to  get  a  purse, 
and  into  this  he  stuffed  a  silver  threepenny  piece. 
He  had  some  trouble  hoisting  the  bag  of  money  on 
his  back,  but  at  last  he  succeeded,  and  set  out  on  his 
journey. 

It  was  a  short  distance,  but  tiny  Tom  had  to  rest 
more  than  a  hundred  times  by  the  way,  so  that  it 
took  him  two  days  and  two  nights  to  reach  his 
father's  house.  His  mother  ran  out  to  meet  him, 
and  carried  him  into  the  house  more  dead  than  alive. 

She  and  the  father  were  overjoyed  to  see  him, 
the  more  so  as  he  had  brought  such  a  great  sum 
of  money;  but  they  were  grieved  that  he  was  so 
worn  out.  His  mother  placed  him  tenderly  in  a 
walnut  shell,  and  feasted  him  three  whole  days  on 
a  hazel  nut.  To  her  sorrow  this  made  him  sick,  for 
he  should  not  have  eaten  a  whole  nut  in  less  than 
a  month. 

In  time,  Tom  was  able  to  run  about  and  to 
think  of  returning  to  court.  But  as  there  had 
been  a  heavy  fall  of  rain  his  mother  said  the  roads 
were  too  wet  for  him  to  walk.  So  when  the  wind 
was  blowing  in  the  direction  of  the  king's  castle 
she  made  a  little  umbrella  of  paper,  tied  Tom  to  it, 
gave  him  a  puff  into  the  air  with  her  mouth,  and 
away  he  went  back  to  King  Arthur. 


150 


STORIES 

TOM    THUMB 

How  HE  BECOMES  ILL  AND  WHO  NURSES  HIM 

WELL,  Tom  was  never  tired  making  fun  for  the 
king  and  queen  and  all  the  court.  The  courtiers 
laughed  till  their  sides  ached  at  his  antics,  and  the 
king  said  to  the  queen,  "  Did  you  ever  see  the  like?  " 
And  she  said,  "  No,  never!  " 

But  he  did  so  much,  he  at  last  made  himself  ill. 
The  whole  court  was  filled  with  sorrow,  for  every- 
one feared  the  little  fellow  would  die.  The  king 
came  constantly  to  his  bedside  to  ask  how  he  was, 
and  brought  his  cleverest  physicians  to  cure  him. 
But  they  coufd  not. 

In  the  midst  of  their  anxiety  the  queen  of  the 
fairies  ordered  her  chariot  drawn  by  winged  butter- 
flies, and  set  out  for  the  palace.  She  lifted  Tom 
tenderly  out  of  his  bed  and  carried  him  with  her 
to  fairyland.  Here  she  herself  nursed  him  back 
to  health  and  let  him  play  with  the  fairies  until  he 
was  as  strong  and  merry  as  ever. 

Then  she  ordered  a  breeze  to  rise.  And  on  this 
she  placed  Tom  and  sent  him  back  to  the  king. 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

TOM   THUMB 
How  TOM   ESCAPES  HANGING 

Now,  just  as  Tom  came  flying  back  to  King  Arthur's 
court,  the  cook  happened  to  be  passing  with  the 
king's  great  bowl  of  frumenty,  a  dish  the  king  was 
very  fond  of.  Unfortunately  the  little  fellow  fell 
plump  into  the  middle  of  it,  splashing  the  hot  fru- 
menty in  the  cook's  face.  The  cook,  in  a  rage  at 
Tom  for  frightening  and  scalding  him,  ran  to  tell 
the  king  that  Tom  had  jumped  into  his  Majesty's 
favorite  dish  out  of  idle  mischief. 

The  king's  anger  was  terrible.  He  ordered  Tom 
to  be  seized  and  tried.  No  one  dared  plead  for  him, 
so  the  king  commanded  that  his  head  be  cut  off.  A 
crowd  followed  the  headsman  to  see  it  done.  The 
headsman  lifted  his  ax.  Poor  little  Tom  fell 
a-trembling  and  looked  about  for  some  means  of 
escape.  In  the  crowd  he  saw  a  miller  with  his  mouth 
open,  like  the  booby  he  was.  At  a  bound  Tom  leaped 
into  the  miller's  mouth.  He  sprang  in  so  nimbly 
that  no  one,  not  even  the  miller  himself,  saw  where 
he  went.  So,  as  the  headsman  could  not  find  Tom 
to  take  off  Tom's  head,  he,  like  a  sensible  man, 
shouldered  his  ax  and  went  home;  and  the  miller 
went  back  to  his  mill. 

When  Tom  heard  the  miller  at  work  in  the  mill, 
he  knew  he  was  far  away  from  the  court  and  en- 

152 


STORIES 

tirely  safe,  so  he  immediately  set  about  getting  out. 
He  began  to  roll  and  tumble  about  in  such  an  alarm- 
ing way  that  the  miller  took  to  bed  and  sent  for 
a  doctor.  When  the  doctor  arrived,  Tom  began  to 
dance  and  sing,  and  the  doctor,  as  much  frightened 
as  the  miller,  sent  in  hot  haste  for  five  more  doctors 
and  twenty  learned  men. 

While  the  six  doctors  and  the  twenty  learned  men 
were  putting  their  wise  heads  together,  the  miller 
happened  to  yawn.  Seizing  the  chance,  Tom  took 
another  jump,  but  out  of  the  miller's  mouth  this 
time,  and  alighted  safe  on  his  feet  in  the  middle  of 
a  table  near  the  bed.  Well,  when  the  miller  saw 
the  little  bit  of  a  creature  that  had  tormented  him, 
it  was  his  turn  to  fall  into  a  rage  at  Tom.  He  laid 
hands  on  him,  opened  the  window,  and  threw  him 
into  the  river. 

And  a  second  time  Tom  was  swallowed  by  a  fish ! 
A  large  salmon  swimming  along  snapped  him  up. 
A  fisherman  caught  the  salmon  and  sold  it  in  the 
market  for  a  great  lord's  table.  But  when  the  lord 
saw  it  he  thought  it  such  a  fine  fish  that  he  made  a 
present  of  it  to  King  Arthur.  So  when  the  cook 
cut  open  the  fish  he  found  poor  Tom  and  ran  to  the 
king  with  him  to  make  sure  that  he  should  not 
escape  again.  But  the  king  was  busy  and  ordered 
Tom  to  be  kept  locked  up  until  he  should  send  for 
him. 

The  cook  was  determined  that  Tom  should  not  get 

153 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

away,  so  he  put  him  into  a  mouse  trap  closely  wired. 
When  Tom  had  spent  a  week  in  the  trap  peeping 
through  the  wires,  the  king  sent  for  him.  But  to  the 
cook's  disappointment  and  Tom's  great  delight,  his 
anger  had  gone.  He  forgave  Tom  for  falling  into 
the  frumenty,  and  made  him  again  his  dwarf,  to 
make  fun  for  him  and  the  court. 


TOM    THUMB 

How  HE  is  KNIGHTED  BY  THE  KING 

To  reward  Tom  for  his  services  to  the  court,  the 
king  made  him  a  knight.  He  told  Tom  to  kneel 
down.  Then  he  struck  him  writh  his  sword  and 
said,  "  With  this  sword  I  dub  thee  knight.  Arise, 
Sir  Thomas  Thumb/' 

As  Tom's  clothes  had  suffered  in  the  batter  pud- 
ding, the  frumenty,  and  the  insides  of  the  giant,  the 
miller,  and  the  fishes,  the  king  ordered  that  the  new 
knight  should  be  given  a  handsome  suit  of  clothes 
and  a  horse  and  sword.  How  proud  Tom  was  and 
how  splendid  he  looked !  You  shall  hear  about  his 
dress  and  his  horse  and  sword  : 

Of  butterfly's  wings  his  shirt  was  made, 

His  boots  of  chicken's  hide; 
And  by  a  nimble  fairy  blade, 
Well  learned  in  the  tailoring  trade, 

His  clothing  was  supplied.  — 


STORIES 

A  needle  dangled  by  his  side; 
A  dapper  mouse  he  used  to  ride, 
Thus  strutted  Tom  in  lordly  pride. 

It  was  great  fun  to  see  Tom  mounted  on  the 
mouse,  as  he  rode  out  a-hunting  with  the  king  and 
the  other  knights.  They  were  all  ready  to  die  with 
laughter  as  they  looked  at  him  and  his  prancing 
charger. 

But  they  were  glad  to  call  him  a  brother  knight, 
he  was  so  brave. 

One  day  as  they  were  riding  past  a  farmhouse  a 
large  cat  lurking  about  a  door  made  a  spring  at 
Tom  and  the  mouse,  seized  them,  and  ran  up  a  tree 
with  them.  Here  she  began  to  devour  the  mouse. 
Tom  boldly  drew  his  sword  and  stuck  it  into  the 
cat  so  fiercely  that  she  was  at  last  forced  to  drop 
them.  As  they  fell,  one  of  the  knights  held  out  his 
hat  and  caught  them.  He  carried  Tom  home  and 
laid  him  on  a  bed  of  down  in  a  little  ivory  cabinet 
until  he  should  get  over  the  attack. 

Tom  was  soon  himself  again,  and  dearer  than 
ever  to  the  king  and  court. 

TOM   THUMB 

How  HE  GOES  AWAY  AND  COMES  BACK  AGAIN 

SOON  after,  the  queen  of  the  fairies  came  to  pay 
Tom  a  visit,  and  when  she  left  she  took  Tom  back 

155 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

with   her   to   fairyland.     There   he   stayed  several 
years. 

While  he  was  gone  King  Arthur  and  the  queen 
and  all  the  knights  who  knew  Tom  died,  so  when 
he  came  back  he  found  a  new  king  reigning,  King 
Thunstone.  All  the  courtiers  flocked  about  the  man- 
nikin,  and  asked  him  who  he  was,  and  whence  he 
came,  and  where  he  lived.  Tom  answered, 

"  My  name  is  Tom  Thumb, 
From  the  fairies  I  've  come. 
When  King  Arthur  shone, 
This  court  was  my  home. 
In  me  he  delighted, 
By  him  I  was  knighted ; 
Have  you  never  heard  of  Sir  Thomas  Thumb?  " 

The  king  was  so  charmed  with  this  speech  that  he 
at  once  made  Tom  court  dwarf.  He  ordered  his 
builders  to  build  Tom  a  gold  palace  a  span  high, 
with  a  door  an  inch  wide,  and  he  ordered  his  coach- 
men to  give  Tom  a  coach  drawn  by  six  small  mice. 
And  so  that  he  might  sit  upon  the  king's  table  close 
to  his  elbow,  he  ordered  his  cabinet  makers  to  make 
Tom  a  little  ivory  chair. 

So  there  was  Tom  back  at  court  again  and  king's 
favorite. 


156 


STORIES 

TOM   THUMB 

WHAT  BECAME  OF  HIM  AT  LAST 

BUT  Tom  did  not  live  much  longer.  A  large  spider 
one  day  attacked  him.  Tom  drew  his  sword  and 
fought  well,  but  at  last  the  spider's  poisonous  breath 
overcame  him. 

"  He  fell  dead  on  the  ground  where  he  stood, 
And  the  spider  suck'd  up  every  drop  of  his  blood." 

Well,  of  course  he  had  to  die  some  time. 

King  Thunstone  and  his  whole  court  were  so  sorry 
that  they  went  into  mourning  for  him,  and  over  his 
grave  they  raised  a  white  marble  monument.  And 
the  king's  engraver  wrote  this  on  it : 

"  Here  lyes  Tom  Thumb,  King  Arthur's  knight, 
Who  died  by  a  cruel  spider's  bite. 
He  was  well  known  in  Arthur's  court, 
Where  he  afforded  gallant  sport  ; 
He  rode  at  tilt  and  tournament, 
And  on  a  mouse  a-hunting  went. 
Alive  he  filled  the  court  with  mirth ; 
His  death  to  sorrow  soon  gave  birth. 
Wipe,  wipe  your  eyes,  and  shake  your  head 
And  cry,  —  '  Alas !  Tom  Thumb  is  dead ! '  " 
—  ENGLISH  FOLK  TALE 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 


THE   TWO    BROTHERS 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  were  two  brothers.  Each 
had  ten  loaves  of  bread  and  nothing  else.  So  they 
said,  "  Let  us  go  and  seek  our  fortune."  And  they 
went. 

When  they  had  gone  a  little  way  they  were  hun- 
gry. One  brother  said  to  the  other,  "  Come,  let  us 
eat  thy  bread  first,  then  we  shall  eat  mine."  So 
they  did  and  went  on  their  way.  When  they  had 
gone  farther  they  were  hungry  again.  The  first 
brother  said  again  to  the  other,  "  Come,  let  us  eat 
thy  bread,  then  we  shall  eat  mine."  They  did  and 
went  on  their  way.  And  when  they  had  gone  far- 
ther they  finished  the  ten  loaves.  Then  the  first 
brother,  who  had  yet  kept  his  loaves,  said  to  the 
other,  "  Now  thou  mayst  go  thy  way,  and  I  shall 
go  mine.  Thou  hast  no  loaves  left,  and  I  will  not 
let  thee  eat  my  bread."  And  the  heartless  fellow 
turned  his  back  and  left  his  brother  to  go  on  alone 
without  a  morsel  of  food. 

Well,  the  brother  went  on  and  on  and  on,  more 
and  more  feebly,  for  want  of  food,  till  he  came 
to  a  mill  in  a  dark  forest.  He  said  to  the  miller, 
"  I  can  go  no  farther ;  pray  let  me  stay  here 
to-night." 

Now  the  miller  was  a  truer  brother  to  him  than 
his  own  had  been,  and  he  answered,  "  Brother,  I 


STORIES 

would  not  turn  thee  away  if  it  were  safe.  But  wild 
beasts  come  into  this  wood  at  night,  perhaps  into 
this  very  mill.  I  myself  do  not  wait  to  see." 

"  I  feel  no  fear,"  said  the  poor  boy;  "  the  beasts 
will  not  harm  me."  So  while  the  miller  went  off 
home  he  crept  into  the  hopper  of  the  mill. 

At  midnight  from  some  place  or  other  a  big  bear, 
a  wolf,  and  a  jackal  came  into  the  mill,  and  went 
leaping  and  bounding  about  as  if  they  were  having 
a  dance.  When  they  had  done  the  bear  said, 
"  Come,  let  us  each  tell  something  he  has  seen  or 
heard.  I  '11  begin. 

"  I  know  a  hill  where  there  is  a  great  heap  of 
money.  It  glitters  when  the  sun  shines.  If  anyone 
should  go  there  on  a  sunny  day,  he  would  find  his 
fortune." 

"  I  know  a  town,"  said  the  wolf,  "  where  there  is 
no  water.  Every  mouthful  has  to  be  brought  from 
a  great  distance.  Now,  in  the  center  of  that  very 
town,  hidden  under  a  stone,  where  no  one  can  see 
it,  is  beautiful  pure  water.  Whoever  finds  the  stone 
will  make  a  fortune." 

"  What  I  can  tell  is  best  of  all,"  said  the  jackal. 
"  I  know  of  a  king  who  has  only  one  daughter,  and 
she  lies  weak  and  pale  now  three  long  years.  If 
only  someone  would  bathe  her  in  beech  leaves  she 
would  grow  strong  and  rosy.  Whoever  cures  her 
will  make  his  fortune." 

At  the  last  word  day  began  to  dawn.     The  bear, 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

the  wolf,  and  the  jackal  left  the  mill  and  disap- 
peared into  the  wood. 

The  boy  had  heard  it  all.  Full  of  thanks  he  came 
out  of  the  hopper.  "  Perhaps,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"  I  may  be  the  one  to  find  the  money,  take  away  the 
stone,  and  cure  the  king's  daughter.  If  so,  my  for- 
tune is  sure." 

He  set  forward  \vith  a  stout  heart  just  as  the  sun 
rose.  Soon  its  beams  fell  on  a  hill  to  the  right  and 
something  glittered  in  its  rays.  And  here  he  found 
the  great  heap  of  money,  a  fortune  in  itself.  Far- 
ther on  he  came  to  the  town  where  the  people  had  no 
water.  In  the  center  of  it  there  was  the  stone.  He 
rolled  it  away,  and  behold!  streams  of  clear  water 
gushed  forth.  The  people  ran  to  get  pitchers  and 
filled  them  to  overflowing.  And  they  gave  him  a 
great  sum  of  gold  and  silver.  After  this  he  set  out 
for  the  kingdom  of  which  the  jackal  had  spoken. 
When  he  arrived  he  asked  the  king,  "  What  wilt 
thou  give  me  if  I  cure  thy  daughter?  " 

"  If  thou  canst  do  this,"  said  the  king,  "  thy  for- 
tune is  made,  for  I  will  give  thee  my  daughter  as  thy 
wife." 

The  youth  gathered  the  beech  leaves,  the  princess 
bathed  in  them,  and  was  cured.  In  great  joy  the 
king  married  the  maiden  to  the  youth.  So  now  his 
fortune  was  made. 

The  news  of  this  reached  the  ears  of  the  selfish 
brother.  He  came  to  his  brother  and  asked  how  it 

1 60 


STORIES 

had  all  happened.  When  he  heard  he  said,  "  I  also 
will  go  and  stay  at  that  mill  a  night  or  two."  His 
brother  warned  him  of  the  danger.  But  he  would 
not  listen.  He  reached  the  mill,  crept  into  the  hopper, 
and  waited. 

As  before,  at  midnight,  from  some  place  or  other, 
the  bear,  the  wolf,  and  the  jackal  came  into  the  mill, 
and  went  leaping  and  bounding  about  as  if  they 
were  having  a  dance.  And  when  they  had  done  the 
bear  said,  "  Come,  let  us  each  tell  something  he  has 
seen  or  heard.  I  '11  begin. 

"  Next  day  after  I  told  you  my  story  the  money 
was  all  taken  away/' 

The  wolf  said,  "  And  the  stone  was  rolled  away 
and  the  water  found." 

"  And  the  king's  daughter  was  cured,"  added  the 
jackal. 

'  Then  perhaps  someone  was  listening  when  we 
talked  here,"  growled  the  bear. 

"  Perhaps  someone  is  here  now,"  howled  the  wolf 
and  the  jackal. 

"  Let  us  go  and  look,"  shrieked  the  three. 

They  looked  up  and  down  and  round  about  and  in 
all  the  corners.  At  last  they  poked  their  noses  into 
the  hopper.  And  that  was  the  end  of  the  greedy 
brother. 

But  he  who  had  married  the  king's  daughter  lived 
happy  ever  after  and  wrhen  the  king  died  ruled  well 
and  wisely.  —  FOLK  TALE. 

161 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 


THE   WOOING 

ONE  morning  bright  and  early  a  young  cock  from 
the  next  farm  stepped  into  the  barnyard  where  lived 
a  certain  young  chick. 

"  Good  day,  Father  Rooster/1  said  he. 

"  Many  thanks,  young  sir,"  said  Father  Rooster. 

"  I  've  come  a-wooing.  May  I  have  your  fair 
daughter  Peep  for  my  bride?" 

"  Ask  Mother  Hen,  Brother  Bantam,  Sister  Cluck, 
and  fair  Peep  herself;  and  then  we'll  see,"  said 
Father  Rooster. 

"Where  is  Mother  .Hen?" 

"  She  is  sitting  in  the  hay  hatching  her  eggs." 

So  away  went  young  cock 
With  a  fly  and  a  leap, 
So  anxious  was  he 
To  marry  fair  Peep. 

"  Good  day,  Mother  Hen,"  said  he. 

"  Many  thanks,  young  sir,"  said  Mother  Hen. 

"  I  've  come  a-wooing.  May  I  have  your  fair 
daughter  Peep  for  my  bride?  " 

"  Ask  Father  Rooster,  Brother  Bantam,  Sister 
Cluck,  and  fair  Peep  herself;  then  we  'II  see,"  said 
Mother  Hen. 

"  Where  is  Brother  Bantam?  " 

"  He  's  on  the  gate-post  learning  to  crow." 
162 


STORIES 

So  away  went  young  cock 
With  a  fly  and  a  leap, 
So  anxious  was  he 
To  marry  fair  Peep. 

"  Good  day,  Brother  Bantam,"  said  he. 

"  Many  thanks,"  said  the  other. 

"  I  've  come  a-wooing.  May  I  have  your  fair 
sister  Peep  for  my  bride?  " 

"  Ask  Father  Rooster,  Mother  Hen,  Sister  Cluck, 
and  fair  Peep  herself ;  then  we  '11  see,"  said  Brother 
Bantam. 

"  Where  is  Sister  Cluck?" 

"  She  's  with  fair  Peep." 

"  And  where  is  fair  Peep?  " 

"  She  's  with  Sister  Cluck." 

Well,  away  went  young  cock 
With  a  fly  and  a  leap, 
So  anxious  was  he 
To  marry  fair  Peep. 

And  wrhen  he  came  to  two  very  close  together,  he 
said  to  one,  "  Good  day,  Sister  Cluck." 

And  one  answered,  "  Many  thanks,  young  sir." 

"  I  Ve  come  a-wooing.  May  I  have  your  fair 
sister  Peep  for  my  bride?  " 

"Ask  Father  Rooster,  Mother  Hen,  Brother 
Bantam,  and  fair  Peep  herself;  then  we  '11  see,"  said 
Sister  Cluck. 

"Fair  Peep,  wilt  thou  be  my  bride?"  said  he. 
163 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

And  all  the  family  came  up  to  hear  her  answer  and 
it  was  n't  no,  so  it  must  have  been  yes. 

"  What  hast  thou  to  keep  house  on  ?  "  said  Mother 
Hen  to  her  daughter. 

And  Brother  Bantam  answered  for  her,  "  A  sweet 
voice;"  and  Sister  Cluck  added,  "A  sweet  temper." 

"  With  these  to  begin/' 
Said  Mother  Hen, 
"  There  "11  be  no  din." 

"  What  is  thy  trade,  young  Master  Cock?"  asked 
Father  Rooster;  "  art  thou  a  tailor?  " 

"  Something  else  for  my  talents." 

"A  blacksmith?" 

"  It  suits  me  not." 

"  Perhaps  thou  art  a  watchmaker." 

"  No,  but  I  *m  a  time-keeper ;  I  tell  people  when 
it  is  time  to  rise  and  go  about  their  work.  Is  it  not 
a  useful  trade  ?  " 

"  That  it  is. 

"  Gladly  we  give  thee  fair  Peep, 

To  love  and  to  keep 

Safe  in  thy  heart, 

Till  death  do  thee  part." 

"  Then  come,  thou,  sweet  wife, 
My  love  and  my  life, 
Step  out  by  my  side, 
My  bonny  wee  bride." 
164 


STORIES 

As  they  took  their  way  home 
They  stepped  on  a  tin, 
And  the  tin  it  bended, 
So  my  story  's  ended. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


JACK-THE-GIANT-KILLER 

When  good  King  Arthur  ruled  the  land,  there  lived 
near  Land's  End  in  England,  in  a  place  called  Corn- 
wall, a  farmer  who  had  an  only  son  named  Jack. 
Jack  was  wide  awake  and  ready  of  wit,  so  that 
nobody  and  nothing  could  worst  him. 

In  those  days  the  Mount  of  Cornwall  was  kept 
by  a  huge  giant  named  Cormoran.  He  was  so  fierce 
and  frightful  to  look  at  that  he  was  the  terror  of  all 
the  neighboring  towns  and  villages.  He  lived  in  a 
cave  in  the  side  of  the  mount,  and  whenever  he 
wanted  food  he  waded  over  to  the  mainland  and  took 
whatever  came  in  his  way.  At  his  coming  every- 
body ran  away,  and  then  of  course  he  seized  the 
cattle,  making  nothing  of  carrying  off  half-a-dozen 
oxen  on  his  back  at  a  time,  and  as  for  sheep  and 
hogs  he  tied  them  around  his  waist  as  if  they  were 
tallow  dips.  He  had  done  this  for  many  years,  and 
all  Cornwall  was  in  despair. 

One  day  Jack  happened  to  be  in  the  town-hall 
when  the  magistrates  were  sitting  in  council  to 
think  what  was  best  to  do. 

165 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  What  reward/'  he  asked,  "  will  be  given  to  the 
man  who  kills  Cormoran  ?  " 

"  He  may  take  the  treasure  the  giant  has  stored 
in  his  cave,"  they  said. 

Quoth  Jack,  "  Let  me  have  a  try  at  it." 

So  he  got  a  horn  and  shovel  and  pickaxe.  And  in 
the  dark  of  a  winter's  evening  he  went  over  to  the 
mount  and  fell  to  work.  Before  morning  he  had  dug 
a  pit  twenty-two  feet  deep  and  nearly  as  broad,  and 
covered  it  with  sticks,  and  straw.  Then  he  strewed 
a  little  earth  over  it  so  that  it  looked  like  plain 
ground.  He  then  placed  himself  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  pit,  and  just  at  the  break  of  day  put  his  horn 
to  his  mouth  and  blew,  Tan-tiv-y,  Tan-tiv-y ! 

The  noise  roused  the  giant.  He  rushed  out  of  his 
cave,  crying,  "  You  villain,  have  you  come  here  to 
disturb  my  rest?  You  shall  pay  dearly  for  this.  I 
will  take  you  whole  and  broil  you  for  breakfast." 
He  had  no  sooner  said  this  than  he  tumbled  into  the 
pit  and  made  the  very  foundations  of  the  mount 
shake. 

"  Oh,  Giant,"  quoth  Jack,  "  where  are  you?  Has 
the  earth  swallowed  you  up?  What  do  you  think 
now  of  broiling  me  for  breakfast?  Will  no  other 
food  do  than  sweet  Jack?  "  Then  he  gave  a  most 
mighty  knock  with  his  pickaxe  on  the  very  crown 
of  the  giant's  big  head,  and  killed  him  on  the  spot. 

Jack  then  filled  up  the  pit  \vith  earth,  and  went  to 
the  cave  and  took  the  treasure.  When  the  magis- 

166 


STORIES 

trates  heard  of  Jack's  success,  they  made  a  law  and 
wrote  it  on  their  books  that  henceforth  he  should  be 
called 

Jack-the-Giant-Killer, 

and  they  presented  him  with  a  sword  and  belt,  and 
on  the  belt  they  wrote  these  words, 

"  Here  's  the  right  valiant  Cornish  man 
Who  slew  the  giant  Cormoran." 

—  ENGLISH  FOLK  TALE 

THE    PIXIES'   THANKS 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  and  a  long  time  ago,  and  a  long, 
long  time  before  that,  a  little  old  woman  had  a  gar- 
den. And  in  this  garden  she  planted  a  beautiful  bed 
of  tulips.  The  slim  green  stalks  of  them  stood  in 
the  earth,  tall  and  straight.  And  every  other  row  of 
lovely  cups  they  held  was  red  and  every  other  was 
yellow.  At  twilight  the  little  old  woman  patted 
down  the  last  of  them,  and  went  in  to  boil  the  kettle 
for  her  tea. 

Now,  as  soon  as  she  was  gone  there  came  peeping 
and  tripping  from  the  field  near  by  a  crowd  of  pixies. 
They  ran  between  the  rows,  and  skipped  from  one 
flower  to  the  next,  and  put  their  slender  fingers 
down  into  the  cups,  and  clapped  their  fairy  palms 
together  and  cried,  "  How  lovely !  "  But  the  little 
old  woman  drinking  her  tea  before  the  fire  did  n't 
hear  a  word. 

167 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

Well,  night  came,  and  the  pixies'  teeny  weeny 
bits  of  elfin  babies  grew  sleepy.  They  must  have 
bawled,  though  of  course  big  ears  like  yours  and 
mine  could  n't  have  heard  them,  for  all  of  a  sudden 
all  the  little  pixies  scampered  home,  crying, 

"  Coming, 
My  teeny  one, 

Coming, 
My  weeny  one, 

Watch  glowworm 

Bright, 
My  speck  of  delight !  " 

And  then  the  cleverest  little  pixie  mother  among 
them  thought  of  something.  "  Let 's  lay  them  in 
those  lovely  cradles/'  said  she;  "  they  '11  be  as  safe 
as  a  bug  in  a  rose  while  we  are  greeting  the  queen." 
She  at  once  picked  up  her  baby  and  ran  back  with 
it  to  the  garden.  And  so  did  the  others  with  theirs. 
They  laid  the  tiny  babies  in  the  tulip  cups  and  sang 
them  to  rest.  The  tulips  rocked  to  and  fro  in  the 
wind  and  made  music  for  the  lullaby.  The  little 
old  woman  washing  her  teacup  caught  a  note  of  the 
music  and  singing,  and  stopped  her  clatter  to  listen, 
it  was  so  sweet. 

As  soon  as  the  elfin  babies  were  fast  asleep,  the 
pixies  tripped  lightly  off  on  the  very  tiptop  tips  of 
their  toes.  The  silver  Moon  was  rising,  and  they 
were  just  in  time  to  form  a  ring  on  the  green  and 

168 


STORIES 

dance  in  her  honor.  They  circled  nine  times  and 
then  looked  up  at  her,  and  she  beamed  down  on 
them  and  they  bowed  low.  Then  she  passed  on 
through  the  heavens  to  make  way  for  the  day. 

It  was  now  the  dawn  of  morning.  The  pixies 
ran  back  to  the  tulip  cradles  in  the  little  old  woman's 
garden,  crying, 

"  Weeny 
Sleepy  head, 

Leave 
Dewy  bed, 

Time 
To  get  up 

From 
Soft  tulip 

Cup." 

The  little  old  woman  awoke  in  the  nick  of  time 
to  hear  them  kissing  and  caressing  the  elfin  babies 
as  they  carried  them  home.  In  a  bound  she  was 
out  of  bed  and  at  the  window,  but  they  had  vanished. 

For  all  that  she  knew  they  had  been  there.  She 
could  tell  it  by  the  tulips.  The  slim  green  stalks  of 
them  stood  in  the  earth,  as  they  had  when  she 
planted  them,  tall  and  straight.  And  every  other 
row  of  lovely  cups  they  held  was  red  and  every 
other  was  yellow.  Yet  there  was  a  wonderful 
change.  It  was  n't  only  the  shining  drops  of  dew 
on  them.  No,  it  was  something  more  wonderful 

169 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

—  it  was  fairy  fragrance.  Every  tulip  smelled  as 
sweet  as  a  rose.  This  was  the  pixies'  thanks  to  the 
little  old  woman. 

News  of  these  rare  tulips  went  far  and  wide,  and 
people  came  from  here,  there,  and  everywhere  to 
buy  them.  So  for  the  rest  of  her  days  the  little  old 
woman  had  plenty  of  money  for  many  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  a  pinch  of  snuff  into  the  bargain. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


THE   CAT   AND   THE    PARROT 

ONCE  there  was  a  cat  and  once  there  was  a  parrot. 
They  agreed  to  invite  each  other  to  dinner,  turn 
and  turn  about.  The  cat  should  ask  the  parrot  to- 
day, and  the  parrot  should  ask  the  cat  to-morrow. 

Well,  it  was  the  cat's  turn  first.  The  cat  went  to 
market  and  bought  nothing  but  a  pennyworth  of 
rice.  The  parrot  could  make  no  dinner  on  this 
meager  fare.  And  what  is  more,  the  cat  was  so  ill- 
mannered  that  he  actually  made  the  parrot  cook  the 
food  himself.  Of  course  the  parrot  was  too  well- 
bred  to  complain. 

Next  day  came  the  parrot's  turn.  He  went  to 
market  and  bought  a  leg  of  meat  and  a  whole  fish, 
head  and  tail  and  all,  and  about  thirty  pounds  of 
flour,  and  a  tub  of  butter,  and  great  bunches  of  lus- 
cious grapes.  And  before  his  guest  came  he  cooked 

170 


STORIES 

the  food.  He  made  heaps  and  heaps  of  brown, 
crisp  spice  cakes,  thick  with  currants,  oh,  enough  to 
fill  a  washerwoman's  basket. 

Well,  the  cat  came,  and  the  parrot  set  the  whole 
meal  before  him,  keeping  only  two  cakes  for  him- 
self. The  cat  ate  the  meat  till  he  licked  the  plate, 
and  he  picked  the  fish  till  the  bones  were  clean,  and 
he  sucked  the  grapes  till  the  skins  were  dry,  and 
then  he  began  on  the  cakes;  and  he  ate  the  whole 
basketful.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  parrot  and 
said,  "  Have  you  any  more?  " 

"  Take  my  two  cakes/'  said  the  parrot.  And  the 
cat  took  them.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  parrot 
and  said,  "  Have  you  any  more?  " 

This  was  too  much  for  the  parrot.  Bristling  his 
feathers,  he  said  sharply,  "  There  's  nothing  left  but 
me."  And  the  cat  looked  him  over,  licked  his  chops, 
and  —  gullup,  gulloo  —  down  went  the  parrot, 
bones,  beak,  and  feathers. 

Now  an  old  woman  had  seen  it  all,  and  she  was 
so  shocked  she  picked  up  a  stone,  and  cried,  "  You 
unnatural  cat,  how  could  you  eat  your  friend  the 
parrot  ?  Scat !  away  with  you,  before  I  hit  you  with 
this  stone/' 

"  Old  woman,"  said  the  cat,  "  I  've  eaten  a  basket- 
ful of  cakes,  I  Ve  eaten  my  friend  the  parrot,  and 
shall  I  blush  to  eat  an  old  hag  like  you  ?  No,  surely 
not."  And  —  gullup,  gulloo  —  down  went  the  old 
woman  with  the  stone  in  her  hand. 

171 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Then  the  cat  walked  along  the  road  till  he  met  a 
man  beating  a  donkey  to  make  him  go.  "  Cat/' 
cried  the  man,  "  get  out  of  the  way,  or  my  donkey 
may  kick  you." 

"  Man,"  said  the  cat,  "  I  Ve  eaten  a  basketful  of 
cakes,  I  Ve  eaten  my  friend  the  parrot,  I  Ve  eaten 
an  old  woman,  and  shall  I  blush  to  eat  a  miserable 
donkey  driver?  No,  surely  not."  And  —  gullup, 
gulloo  —  down  went  the  man  and  his  donkey. 

After  this  the  cat  walked  on  again  till  he  met  a 
wedding  procession.  At  the  head  came  the  king 
with  his  newly  made  bride,  and  behind  him  marched 
a  company  of  soldiers,  and  behind  them  tramped  ever 
and  ever  so  many  elephants,  two  and  two,  and  two 
and  two,  and  two  and  two,  and  a  great  many 
more. 

"  Cat,"  said  the  happy  king,  kindly,  "  turn  out  of 
the  road  a  little,  or  my  elephants  may  trample  you 
to  death." 

"  King,"  said  the  cat,  "  you  don't  know  me.  I  Ve 
eaten  a  basketful  of  cakes,  I  Ve  eaten  my  friend  the 
parrot,  I  Ve  eaten  a  miserable  man  and  his  donkey, 
and  shall  I  blush  to  eat  a  beggarly  king  ?  No,  surely 
not."  And  —  gullup,  gulloo  —  down  went  the  king, 
down  went  the  queen,  down  went  the  soldiers,  bay- 
onets and  all,  down  went  the  elephants,  two  and  two, 
and  two  and  two. 

After  this  the  cat  walked  on  more  slowly,  for  he 
was  somewhat  heavy.  On  the  way  two  landcrabs 

172 


STORIES 

went  scuttling  across  the  road.  "  Run  away,  run 
away,  Pussycat,"  they  squeaked,  "  or  we  might 
nip  you." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  cat,  shaking  his  fat 
sides.  "  Ho,  ho,  ho !  "  he  roared,  showing  his  teeth ; 
"  you  don't  know  me.  I  Ve  eaten  a  basketful  of 
cakes,  I  Ve  eaten  my  friend  the  parrot,  I  Ve  eaten  a 
miserable  man  and  his  donkey,  I  Ve  eaten  a  king 
and  his  bride,  I  Ve  eaten  a  company  of  soldiers, 
I  Ve  eaten  a  herd  of  elephants,  two  and  two,  and 
shall  I  blush  to  eat  two  silly  little  landcrabs?  Nay, 
not  so."  And  he  pounced  upon  the  landcrabs, 
gullup,  gulloo,  gulloo,  gullup,  in  two  swrallows  they 
were  inside  the  cat. 

But  —  when  their  eyes  were  used  to  the  darkness, 
the  landcrabs  made  out  the  king  sitting  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  very  unhappy.  Across  his  knee 
lay  the  newly  made  bride  in  a  dead  faint.  Near 
them  the  company  of  soldiers  were  trying  to  form 
fours.  Behind  these  the  elephants  were  trumpeting, 
the  donkey  was  braying,  the  parrot  was  whetting  his 
beak  on  his  own  claws,  and  the  old  woman  was 
scolding  the  cat  roundly.  In  a  corner  they  made  out 
a  great  pile  of  cakes. 

The  landcrabs  said,  "  His  sides  are  soft :  let 's 
get  out."  Nip,  nip,  they  went,  nip,  nip,  nip.  And 
out  they  scuttled.  Then  out  walked  the  king  with 
his  bride  on  his  arm,  out  marched  the  soldiers,  out 
tramped  the  elephants,  two  and  two,  out  went  the 

173 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

man  and  his  donkey  without  any  beating,  out  hobbled 
the  old  woman,  and  out  flew  the  parrot. 

And  the  cat  had  to  spend  a  night  and  a  day  sewing 
up  his  sides.  —  EASTERN  FOLK  TALE 


LAMPBLACK 

A  POOR  black  paint  lay  very  unhappy  in  its  tube. 
It  had  tumbled  out  of  an  artist's  color-box  and  had 
lain  unnoticed  for  a  year.  "  I  am  only  Lampblack," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  The  master  never  looks  at  me : 
he  says  I  am  heavy,  dull,  lusterless,  useless.  I  wish 
I  could  cake  and  dry  up  and  die,  as  poor  Flakewhite 
did." 

But  Lampblack  could  not  die ;  he  could  only  lie  in 
his  tin  tube  and  pine,(like  a  silly,  sorrowful  thing  as 
he  was,  in  company  with  some  broken  bits  of  char- 
coal and  a  rusty  palette-knife.  The  master  never 
touched  him;  month  after  month  passed  by,  and  he 
was  never  thought  of ;  the  other  paints  had  all  their 
turn  of  fair  fortune,  and  went  out  into  the  world  to 
great  halls  and  mighty  palaces,  transfigured  and 
rejoicing  in  a  thousand  beautiful  shapes  and  ser- 
vices. But  Lampblack*' was  always  passed  over 
as  dull  and  coarse.  Indeed  he  knew  himself  to  be 
so,  poor  fellow,  and  this  made  it  all  the  worse. 
"  You  are  only  a  deposit!  "  said  the  other  colors  to 
him;  and  he  felt  that  it  was  disgraceful  to  be  a 


i 


STORIES 

deposit,  though  he  was  not  quite  sure  what  it 
meant. 

"  If  only  I  were  happy  like  the  others !  "  thought 
poor,  sooty  Lampblack,  sorrowful  in  his  corner. 
"  There  is  Bistre,  now,  he  is  not  so  very  much 
better-looking  than  I  am,  and  yet  they  can  do  noth- 
ing without  him,  whether  it  is  a  girl's  face  or  a 
wimple  in  a  river!  " 

The  others  were  all  so  happy  in  this  beautiful 
bright  studio,  where  the  open  casements  were  hung 
with  green  myrtle,  and  where  the  silence  was  filled 
with  the  singing  of  nightingales.  Cobalt,  with  a 
touch  or  two,  became  the  loveliness  of  summer  skies 
at  morning;  the  Lakes  and  Carmines  bloomed  in  a 
thousand  exquisite  flowers  and  fancies ;  the  Chromes 
and  Ochres  (mere  dull  earths)  were  allowed  to 
spread  themselves  in  sheets  of  gold  that  took  the 
shine  of  the  sun  into  the  darkest  places ;  Umber,  a 
somber  and  gloomy  thing,  could  lurk  in  a  child's 
curls  and  laugh  in  a  child's  smiles;  whilst  all  the 
families  of  the  Vermilions,  the  Blues,  the  Greens, 
lived  in  a  perpetual  glory  of  sunset  or  sunrise,  of 
ocean  waves  or  autumn  woods,  of  kingly  pageant 
or  of  martial  pomp. 

It  was  very  hard.  Popr  Lampblack  felt  as  if  his 
very  heart  would  break,  (above  all  when  he  thought 
of  pretty  little  Rose  Madder,  whom  he  loved  dearly, 
and  who  never  would  even  look  at  him,  she  was  so 
proud,  because  she  was  always  placed  in  nothing 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

less  than  rosy  clouds,  or  the  hearts  of  roses,  or 
something  as  fair  and  spiritual.) 

"  I  am  only  a  wretched  deposit!  "  sighed  Lamp- 
black,(and  the  rusty  palette-knife  grumbled  back, 
"  My  own  life  has  been  ruined  in  cleaning  dirty 
brushes!" 

"  But  at  least  you  were  of  use  once;  but  I  never 
am,  —  never !  "  said  Lampblack.  And  indeed  he 
had  been  there  so  long  that  the  spiders  had  spun 
their  silver  fleeces  all  about  him,  and  he  was  growing 
as  gray  as  an  old  bottle  does  in  a  dark  cellar .J 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  studio  opened, 
and  there  came  a  flood  of  light,  and  the  step  of  a 
man  was  heard;  the  hearts  of  all  the  colors  jumped 
for  joy.  It  was  their  magician,  who  out  of  mere 
common  clays  and  ground  ores  could  raise  them  at 
a  touch  into  splendors  immortal. 

Only  the  heart  of  poor  dusty  Lampblack  did  not 
beat  a  throb  the  more,  because  he  was  always  left 
alone  and  never  was  thought  worthy  of  even  a  glance. 
But  he  could  not  believe  his  senses  when  the  master 
crossed  the  floor  to  the  dark  corner  where  he  lay 
under  the  spiders'  webs.  Lampblack  felt  sick  and 
faint  with  rapture.  Had  his  turn  come  at  last? 

The  master  took  him  up.  "  You  will  do  for  this 
work/7  he  said;/  and  Lampblack  was  borne  trem- 
bling to  an  easel.  The  colors,  for  once  neglected, 
crowded  together  to  watch,  looking  in  their  bright 
tin  tubes  like  rows  of  little  soldiers  in  armor. 

176 


STORIES 

"  It  is  dull  Old  Deposit,"  they  murmured  to  one 
another,  and  felt  contemptuous,  but  curious,  as 
scornful  people  often  will  be. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  glorious  and  great,"  thought 
Lampblack,  and  his  heart  swelled  high;  for  never- 
more would  they  be  able  to  hurl  the  name  of  Deposit 
at  him,  a  name  which  hurt  all  the  more  because  he 
did  not  know  what  it  meant. 

"  You  will  do  for  this  work/'  said  the  master, 
(and  let  Lampblack  out  of  his  metal  prison-house 
into  the  light  and  touched  him  with  the  brush  that 
was  the  wand  of  magic,  j 

"What  am  I  going  to  be?"  wondered  Lamp- 
black, as  he  felt  himself  taken  on  to  a  large  piece  of 
deal  board,  so  large  that  he  felt  he  must  be  going  to 
make  at  the  least  the  outline  of  an  athlete  or  the 
shadows  of  a  tempest. 

He  could  not  tell  what  he  was  becoming;  but  he 
was  happy  enough  and  grand  enough  only  to  be  used. 
He  began  to  dream  a  thousand  things  (pf  all  the 
scenes  he  would  be  in,  and  all  the  hues  that  he 
would  wear,  and  all  the  praise  that  he  would  hear 
when  he  went  out  into  that  wonderful  world  where 
his  master  was  so  much  admired.) 

But  he  was  harshly  roused  from  his  secret  dreams ; 
all  the  colors  were  laughing  and  tittering  round  him 
till  the  little  tin  helmets  they  wore  shook  with  their 
merriment. 

"  Old  Deposit  is  going  to  be  a  sign-post,"  they 
177 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

cried  to  one  another  (so  merrily  that  the  spiders,  who 
are  not  companionable  creatures,  came  to  the  doors 
of  their  dens  to  chuckle  too.y  A  sign-post!  Lamp- 
black, stretched  out  in  joy  upon  the  board,  roused 
himself  and  gazed  at  the  change.  He  had  been 
made  into  seven  letters,  thus: 

BANDITA. 

This  word  in  the  Italian  country,  where  the  English 
painter's  studio  was,  means,  Do  not  trespass,  Do  not 
shoot,  Do  not  show  yourself  here:  anything,  in- 
deed, that  is  uncivil  to  all  comers.  In  these  seven 
letters,  outspread  upon  the  board,  was  Lampblack 
disgraced ! 

Farewell,  hopes  and  dreams !  He  had  been  em- 
ployed to  paint  a  sign-board,  a  thing  stoned  by  the 
boys,  blown  on  by  the  winds,  gnawed  by  the  rats, 
and  drenched  with  the  winter's  rains.  Better  the 
dust  and  the  cobwebs  of  his  old  corner  than  such 
shame  as  this! 

/  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  He  was  dried  with 
a  drench  of  turpentine,  hastily  clothed  in  a  coat  of 
copal,  andy  ere  he  yet  was  fully  aware  of  all  his 
miseryj  was  being  borne  away  upon  the  great  board 
out  of  doors  and  handed  to  the  gardener.  It  was 
the  master  himself  who  did  this  to  him.  (  As  the 
door  closed  on  him,  he  heard  all  the  colors  laughing, 
and  the  laugh  of  little  Rose  Madder  was  highest 
of  all  as  she  cried  to  Naples  Yellow,  who  was 

178 


STORIES 

a  dandy  and  made  court  to  her,  "  Poor  old  ugly  De- 
posit! He  will  grumble  to  the  owls  and  the  bats 
now!"  } 

«x 

The  door  shut  him  out  forever  from  all  the  joy- 
ous company  and  the  palace  of  beauty,  and  the 
rough  hands  of  the  gardener  grasped  him  and  car- 
ried him  to  the  edge  of  the  garden,  where  the  wall 
overlooked  the  public  road,  and  there  fastened  him 
up  on  high  with  a  band  of  iron  round  the  trunk 
of  a  tree. 

That  night  it  rained  heavily,  the  north  wind  blew, 
and  there  was  thunder.  Lampblack,  out  in  the  storm 
without  his  tin  house  to  shelter  him,  felt  that  of  all 
creatures  wretched  on  the  face  of  the  earth  there 
was  not  one  so  miserable  as  he.  A  sign-board! 
Nothing  but  a  sign-board! 

(  A  color,  created  for  art  and  artists,  could  not  feel 
more  grievously  disgraced.  Oh,  how  he  longed  for 
his  tin  tube  and  the  quiet  nook  with  the  charcoal  and 
the  palette-knife!  He  had  been  unhappy  there  in- 
deed, but  he  had  had  some  sort  of  hope  to  comfort 
him,  —  some  chance  still  remaining  that  one  day 
he  might  be  allowed  to  be  at  least  the  shadow  of 
some  immortal  work.  Now  —  nevermore  could  he 
be  anything  but  what  he  was;  change  there  could 
be  none  till  weather  and  time  should  have  done 
their  work  on  him,  and  he  be  rotting  on  the  wet 
earth,  a  shattered  and  worm-eaten  wreck. 

Day  broke,  —  a  gloomy,  misty  morning. 
179 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

From  where  he  was  disgraced  upon  the  tree-trunk 
he  could  no  longer  even  see  his  beloved  home,  the 
studio ;  he  could  see  only  a  dusky,  intricate  tangle  of 
branches  all  about  him,  and  below  the  wall  of  flint, 
with  the  Banksia  that  grew  on  it,  and  the  hard 
muddy  highway,  drenched  with  the  storm  of  the 
night.J 

A  man  passed  in  a  miller's  cart,  and  stood  up  and 
scowled  at  him,  because  the  people  had  liked  to  come 
and  shoot  and  trap  the  birds  of  the  master's  wooded 
gardens,  and  they  knew  that  they  must  not  do  it  now. 
A  slug  crawled  over  him,  and  a  snail  also.  A  wood- 
pecker hammered  at  him  with  its  strong  beak.  A 
boy  went  by  under  the  wall,  and  threw  stones  at  him, 
and  called  him  names.  The  rain  poured  down  again 
heavily.  He  thought  of  the  happy  painting-room, 
where  it  had  seemed  always  summer  and  always 
sunshine,  and  where  now  in  the  forenoon  all  the 
colors  were  marshaling  in  the  pageantry  of  the  Arts, 
as  he  had  seen  them  do  hundreds  of  times  from  his 
lonely  corner.  All  the  misery  of  the  past  looked  hap- 
piness now. 

"  If  I  were  only  dead,  like  Flakewhite,"  he 
thought;  but  the  stones  only  bruised,  they  did  not 
kill  him;  and  the  iron  band  only  hurt,  it  did  not 
stifle  him.  For  whatever  suffers  very  much,  has 
much  strength  to  continue  to  exist.  His  loyal  heart 
almost  hated  the  master  who  had  brought  him  to 
such  a  fate  as  this. 

180 


STORIES 

The  day  grew  apace,  and  noon  went  by,  and  with 
it  the  rain  passed.  The  sun  shone  out  once  more, 
and  Lampblack,  even  imprisoned  and  wretched  as 
he  was,  could  not  but  see  how  beautiful  the  wet 
leaves  looked,  and  the  gossamers  all  hung  with  rain- 
drops, and  the  blue  sky  that  shone  through  the 
boughs ;  for  he  had  not  lived  with  an  artist  all  his 
days  to  be  blind,  even  in  pain,  to  the  loveliness  of 
nature.  (Some  little  brown  birds  tripped  out  too  with 
the  sun  —  very  simple  and  plain  in  their  dress,  but 
Lampblack  knew  they  were  the  loves  of  the  poets, 
for  he  had  heard  the  master  call  them  so  many  times 
in  summer  nights.)  The  little  brown  birds  came  trip- 
ping and  pecking  about  on  the  grass  underneath  his 
tree-trunk,  and  then  flew  on  the  top  of  the  wall, 
which  was  covered  with  Banksia  and  many  other 
creepers.  The  brown  birds  sang  a  little  song,  for 
though  they  sing  most  in  the  moonlight  they  do  sing 
by  day  too,  and  sometimes  all  day  long.  And  what 
they  sang  was  this  : 

"  Oh,  how  happy  we  are,  how  happy ! 
No  nets  dare  now  be  spread  for  us, 
No  cruel  boys  dare  climb, 
And  no  cruel  shooters  fire. 
We  are  safe,  quite  safe, 
And  the  sweet  summer  has  begun !  " 

Lampblack  listened,  and  even  in  his  misery  was 
soothed  by  the  tender  liquid  sounds  that  these  little 

181 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

throats  poured  out  among  the  bloom  of  the  Banksia 
flowers.  And  when  one  of  the  brown  birds  came 
and  sat  on  a  branch  by  him,  swaying  itself  and 
drinking  the  rain-drops  off  a  leaf,  he  ventured  to 
ask,  as  well  as  he  could  for  the  iron  that  strangled 
him,  why  they  were  so  safe,  and  what  made  them  so 
happy. 

The  bird  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Do  you  not  know?  "   he  said.     "  It  is  you!  " 

"  I !  "  echoed  Lampblack,  and  could  say  no  more, 
for  he  feared  that  the  bird  was  mocking  him,  a  poor, 
silly,  rusty  black  paint,  only  spread  out  to  rot  in  fair 
weather  and  foul.  What  good  could  he  do  to  any 
creature  ? 

"  You,"  repeated  the  nightingale.  "  Did  you  not 
see  that  man  under  the  wall?  He  had  a  gun;  we 
should  have  been  dead  but  for  you.  We  will  come 
and  sing  to  you  all  night  long,  as  you  like  it;  and 
when  we  go  to  bed  at  dawn,  I  will  tell  my  cousins, 
the  thrushes  and  merles,  to  take  our  places,  so  that 
you  shall  hear  somebody  singing  near  you  all  day 
long/' 

Lampback  was  silent.  His  heart  was  too  full  to 
speak.  Was  it  possible  that  he  was  of  use,  after  all. 

"  Can  it  be  true  ?  "  he  said,  timidly. 

"  Quite  true,"  said  the  nightingale. 

"  Then  the  master  knew  best,"  thought  Lamp- 
black. 

The  colors  in  the  studio  had  all  the  glories  of  the 
182 


STORIES 

world,  but  he  was  of  use  in  it,  after  all;  he  could 
save  these  little  lives.  He  was  poor  and  despised, 
bruised  by  stones  and  drenched  by  storms ;  yet  was 
he  content,  for  he  had  not  been  made  quite  in  vain. 

The  sunset  poured  its  red  and  golden  splendors 
through  the  darkness  of  the  boughs,  and  the  birds 
sang  all  together,  shouting  for  joy  and  praising 
God.  — LA  RAM£E 


LAZY   JACK 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  boy  whose  name  was 
Jack.  His  mother  was  very  poor,  but  she  was  hard- 
working and  tried  to  get  her  living  by  spinning. 
Jack  was  so  lazy  he  never  did  anything  to  help  her. 
So,  at  last,  she  said  that  he  should  not  eat  his 
porridge  unless  he  earned  it. 

At  this  out  shuffled  Jack  and  hired  himself  to  a 
farmer  and  got  for  his  day's  labor  a  shining  new 
penny.  Home  he  went  with  it,  but  on  the  way  let 
it  slip  out  of  his  fingers  into  a  brook,  unknown  to 
himself. 

When  his  mother  saw  him  smiling  and  holding  his 
fist  closed,  she  said,  "  Well,  Jack,  did  you  earn  your 
porridge  to-day  ?  " 

"  That  I  did,  mother/'  said  Jack,  "  and  here  's  the 
penny."  With  that  he  opened  his  empty  hand. 

"  A  penny,"  cried  his  mother,  in  high  delight, 
"  give  it  here,  my  darling  boy."  But  when  she  saw 

183 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

the  empty  hand  she  changed  her  tune.  "  You  stupid 
lout,"  said  she,  "  you  Ve  lost  the  good  money. 
That 's  no  way  to  bring  home  a  penny.  The  safest 
thing  to  do  with  a  penny  is  to  put  it  into  your  pocket 
and  come  straight  home." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  sweet  mother,"  whim- 
pered Jack,  "  that ' s  what  I  '11  do  the  next  time."  So 
his  mother  gave  him  his  supper. 

The  next  day  Jack  went  out  again,  and  this  time 
hired  himself  to  a  cowherd  and  got  for  his  day's 
labor  a  jug  of  new  milk.  Jack  took  the  jug, 
squeezed  it  into  the  largest  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
set  off  home,  spilling  the  milk  at  every  step,  so  that 
by  the  time  he  got  home  there  was  n't  a  drop  left. 

When  his  mother  saw  his  pocket  bulging  out,  she 
asked,  "  What  have  you  there,  Jack,  my  son?  " 

"  A  jug  of  new  milk,  mother,"  answered  Jack, 
tugging  it  out  of  his  pocket. 

"  A  jug  of  new  milk,"  cried  his  mother,  "  and 
you  Ve  spilled  it !  Have  you  no  sense,  you  ninny- 
hammer?  That's  no  way  to  bring  home  a  jug  of 
milk.  The  safest  way  to  carry  a  jug  of  milk  is  to 
put  it  on  your  head  and  hold  it  with  both  hands  and 
come  straight  home." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  sweet  mother,"  whimpered 
Jack,  beginning  to  blubber;  "that's  what  I'll  do 
the  next  time."  So  his  mother  gave  him  his  supper 
that  time,  too. 

Well,  the  next  day  Jack  hired  himself  to  a  farmer, 
184 


STORIES 

and  got  for  his  day's  labor  a  fine  fresh  cream  cheese. 
Jack  took  that  cheese,  placed  it  on  his  head,  held  it 
down  firmly  with  both  hands,  and  set  out  home. 
Now,  Jack's  head  was  warm  and  the  cheese  was  soft. 
So  it  was  n't  long  before  it  began  to  get  softer.  By 
the  time  he  reached  home  part  of  it  had  oozed  down 
over  his  face  and  more  of  it  had  matted  into  his 
hair ;  he  was  a  sight  to  behold. 

When  his  mother  saw  him,  she  threw  up  her  arms 
and  cried,  "  Dearie  me,  dearie  me,  whatever  has 
happened  to  my  own  bonny  son?  " 

"  Why,  nothing,  mother,"  said  Jack,  "  and  see  the 
fine  cheese  I  Ve  brought  you  home."  With  that  he 
took  down  from  his  head  a  bit  of  grease  in  each 
hand. 

"  You  Ve  spoiled  a  cheese,  a  fine  cream  cheese," 
screamed  his  mother.  "  Have  you  no  sense  at  all, 
at  all,  in  your  empty  head,  you  numbskull  ?  That 's 
no  way  to  bring  home  a  cheese.  The  safest  thing 
to  do  with  a  cheese  is  to  take  it  in  both  hands,  hold 
it  out  before  you,  and  come  straight  home." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  sweet  mother,"  said  Jack, 
beginning  to  snuffle,  "  that 's  what  I  '11  do  the  next 
time." 

So  he  did  n't  go  supperless  to  bed  that  night  either. 

It  was  a  baker  Jack  hired  himself  to  the  next  day, 
and  at  the  close  of  it  the  baker  gave  him  a  cat. 
''  Your  mother  will  find  her  a  good  mouser,"  said 
he.  And  Jack  said,  "  Thank  you,  kindly,  sir,"  and 

185 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

took  the  cat.  He  held  her  with  both  hands  out  be- 
fore him  and  started  straight  for  home.  On  the 
way  a  mouse  scurried  across  his  path  and  the  cat 
leaped  from  his  hands ;  but  Jack  still  held  them  out, 
ready  for  her  when  she  should  come  back,  and  kept 
on  toward  home. 

When  he  reached  home  his  mother  looked  at  his 
hands  and  said,  "  What  have  you  in  your  hands, 
Jack?" 

"  I  had  a  cat,  mother,"  said  he,  "  a  good  mouser, 
but  she  made  after  a  mouse  and  has  n't  come  back 
yet." 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight,"  cried  his  mother,  "  before 
I  lose  my  patience  and  do  something  I  might  be 
sorry  for.  Haven't  you  an  atom  of  sense  about 
you  at  all,  at  all,  at  all  ?  Would  n't  a  child  know 
that 's  no  way  to  bring  home  a  live  cat  ?  The  safest 
thing  to  do  with  a  cat  is  to  tie  a  string  around  her 
neck,  put  her  on  the  ground,  and  draw  her  home 
after  you." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  sweet  mother,"  cried 
Jack,  bawling  outright ;  "  that 's  what  I  '11  do  the 
very  next  time."  So  his  mother  would  n't  see  him 
starve  that  night. 

Well,  the  very  next  day  Jack  hired  out  to  a 
butcher,  and  got  for  his  day's  labor  a  splendid  shoul- 
der of  mutton  for  Sunday's  dinner,  for  this  was 
Saturday.  Jack  took  the  mutton,  tied  a  string 
around  it,  put  it  on  the  ground,  and  dragged  it  home 

186 


STORIES 

after  him  in  the  mud  and  dirt.  So  by  the  time  he 
got  home  the  meat  was  completely  ruined. 

When  his  mother  saw  it  she  was  so  upset  that  she 
threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and  rocked  herself 
to  and  fro  and  wept  aloud.  "  If  you  had  the  least 
grain  of  sense  in  you,  you  useless  omadhaun,"  she 
wailed,  "  you  'd  have  brought  the  sweet  meat  home 
on  your  shoulder." 

Jack  put  his  arms  around  his  mother  and  kissed 
her  and  promised  to  do  that  the  next  time.  So  she 
gave  him  his  supper,  but  they  had  to  make  their 
Sunday  dinner  of  cabbage. 

Monday  morning,  bright  and  early,  Jack  went 
out  once  more  and  hired  himself  to  a  cattle-drover 
and  for  his  day's  labor  got  a  donkey.  Although 
Jack  was  a  husky  fellow,  he  found  it  hard  to  hoist 
the  donkey  on  his  shoulder,  but  mindful  of  his 
mother's  grief  he  got  it  up  and  set  out  home  slowly 
with  the  prize. 

Now  it  chanced  that  on  the  way  home  he  had  to 
pass  the  house  of  a  beautiful  girl  who  unfortu- 
nately was  deaf  and  dumb.  The  doctors  said  she 
would  never  speak  until  someone  should  make  her 
laugh.  Many  had  tried  but  without  success.  In 
despair  her  father,  who  was  very  rich,  had  promised 
that  very  day  whoever  could  make  her  laugh  should 
marry  her. 

The  girl  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow when  Jack  came  along  with  the  donkey  on  his 

187 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

shoulders,  its  legs  sticking  up  in  the  air.  He  looked 
so  funny  she  burst  into  a  merry  fit  of  laughter,  and 
at  once  was  able  to  hear  and  speak. 

So  her  father,  overjoyed,  gave  her  to  Jack  with 
a  sackful  of  money  and  more  to  come. 

"  My  love,  your  fortune  is  made,"  cried  his 
mother,  when  she  heard  the  good  news.  And  she 
went  to  live  with  Jack  and  his  bride,  and  they  all 
had  plenty  and  were  happy  ever  after. 

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, 

Let  the  wedding  bells  ring. 

—  FOLK  TALE 

THE  TIME  THAT  WILL  COME  AGAIN 

ONE  warm  bright  day  in  autumn,  when  the  whole 
world  was  changing  to  brown  and  red  and  gold, 
a  little  squealing  pig  was  sent  by  his  mother  to  bring 
home  some  beechnuts  to  Piggikin,  the  baby. 

"  They  're  dropping  now,  tender  and  sweet,  in 
the  wood/'  said  Mother  Sow.  "  Off  with  you  and 
get  some."  So 

With  a  run  and  a  squeal 
Away  went  the  pig, 
With  an  odd  little  reel. 

Now,  on  the  way  he  passed  a  boy  and  a  girl  sitting 
by  the  roadside,  with  their  backs  to  him.  And  the 
boy  was  saying  to  the  girl, 

188 


STORIES 

"  A  long  time  ago  when  pigs  had  wings 
And  pups  grew  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time  donkeys  brayed  in  rhyme 
And  fiddles  danced  the  barn  hops  "  — 

"  That 's  very  strange/'  said  the  pig;  "  can  it  be 
true?  I  '11  ask  the  old  witch  owl  about  it.  I  'd  like 
a  pair  of  wings ;  I  'd  fly  high,  I  can  tell  you/'  So 

With  a  run  and  a  squeal 
Away  went  the  pig, 
With  an  odd  little  reel ; 

and  he  left  the  path  to  the  wood  to  make  for  a  barn 
half  a  mile  off,  where  the  old  witch  owl  lived. 

On  the  way  he  met  a  pup  whose  father  had  told 
him  to  guard  the  kennel  while  he  himself  went  in 
search  of  a  bone.  The  pup  was  rolling  on  the 
ground  in  the  sunshine. 

"  O  roly-poly  pup,"  called  out  the  pig,  "  what  do 
you  think  I  heard  this  morning?  " 

"  What?  "  said  the  roly-poly  pup,  running  away 
from  the  kennel. 

"  A  long  time  ago  when  pigs  had  wings 
And  pups  grew  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time 
Donkeys  brayed  in  rhyme 
And  fiddles  danced  the  barn  hops." 

"  That 's  very  strange,"  said  the  pup;  "  can  it  be 
true?  We  Jll  ask  the  old  witch  owl  about  it.  I  Jd 

189 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

like  to  grow  in  a  tree- top.    I  'd  see  farther  than  my 
nose,  I  can  tell  you."     So 

With  a  run  and  a  squeal 

Away  went  the  pig  with  an  odd  little  reel 

And  the  roly-poly  pup  followed  after. 

Well,  on  the  way  they  met  a  donkey  kicking  his 
heels  to  get  rid  of  the  pack  on  his  back.  And  they 
called  out  to  him,  "  O  kicking,  kicking  donkey,  what 
do  you  think  we  heard  this  very  morning?  " 

"  What?  "  said  the  kicking,  kicking  donkey,  as  he 
kicked  the  pack  from  his  back. 

"  A  long  time  ago  when  pigs  had  wings 
And  pups  grewr  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time  donkeys  brayed  in  rhyme 
And  fiddles  danced  the  barn  hops." 

"  That 's  very  strange,"  said  the  donkey ;  "  can 
it  be  true?  We'll  ask  the  old  witch  owl  about  it. 
I  'd  like  to  bray  in  rhyme.  I  'd  bring  down  the 
house,  I  can  tell  you."  So 

With  a  run  and  a  squeal 
Away  went  the  pig  with  an  odd  little  reel, 
And  the  roly-poly  pup  and  the  kicking, 
kicking  donkey  followed  after. 

Halfway  to  the  barn  they  met  a  fiddle  lying  near 
a  bench.  He  was  in  such  a  bad  temper  that  he  had 
broken  the  string  that  makes  the  sweetest  music. 

190 


STORIES 

But  the  others  were  too  full  of  their  news  to  notice 
his  ill  humor. 

"  O  fiddle  diddle,"  they  cried,  "  what  do  you  think 
we  heard  this  very  morning?  " 

"What?"  snapped  the  fiddle,  and  he  broke  an- 
other string. 

"  A  long  time  ago  when  pigs  had  wings 
And  pups  grew  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time  donkeys  brayed  in  rhyme, 
And  fiddles  danced  the  barn  hops." 

"  What  nonsense !  "  growled  the  fiddle,  in  such 
an  ugly  tone  that  even  the  donkey  rose  on  his  hind 
legs  to  cover  his  big  ears  with  his  forefeet. 

"  We  're  going  to  ask  the  old  witch  owl  about  it," 
said  the  pup.  "  Come  along  and  hear  what  she  says." 

"  Rr-r-r-r-zing,  you  silly  thing,"  snarled  the  fiddle, 
so  fiercely  that  without  waiting  for  more, 

With  a  run  and  a  squeal 

Away  went  the  pig  with  an  odd  little  reel, 

And  the  roly-poly  pup  and  the  kicking,  kicking 

donkey, 
And  the  ill-tempered  fiddle  followed  after. 

He  sneaked  along,  though,  behind  the  others,  and 
tripped  often  in  his  broken  strings,  and  this  made 
jus  temper  worse. 

Well,  the  day  was  darkening  into  twilight  when 
they  reached  the  barn.  But  they  were  so  anxious 

191 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

to  hear  the  old  witch  owl's  opinion  that  they  did  n't 
notice  this.  The  old  witch  owl  stood  in  a  little  round 
opening  in  the  front  of  the  barn,  high  up  near  the 
pointed  top  where  the  weathercock  turns.  She  was 
looking  out  into  the  gathering  darkness,  planning 
her  voyage  into  the  night. 

'  There  she  is,"  squealed  the  pig  in  a  whisper, 
getting  behind  the  pup. 

"  Her  ears  are  bigger  than  mine,"  said  the  donkey, 
getting  behind  the  pig. 

But  the  fiddle  pushed  to  the  front  and  growled, 
"  Rr-r-r-r-zing,  you  silly  thing,  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
an  old  witch  owl.  I  '11  ask  the  ridiculous  question." 

"  Do,  sweet  fiddle,"  whispered  the  little  squealing 
pig  and  the  roly-poly  pup  and  the  kicking,  kicking 
donkey,  "  how  kind  of  you  to  have  come." 

"  Rr-r-r-r-zing,  you  silly  thing,  and  you,  and  you ; 
I  came  to  please  myself." 

"  Madame  Witch  Owl,"  he  growled,  spoiling  the 
music  of  the  verse,  "is  it  true  that 

"  A  long  time  ago  pigs  had  wings 
And  pups  grew  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time  donkeys  brayed  in  rhyme, 
And  fiddles  danced  the  barn  hops?  " 

The  old  witch  looked  down  at  him.  And  her  eyes 
glowed  so  much  like  two  round  wheels  of  fire  that 
the  fiddle  in  secret  fright  burst  another  string.  But 
for  all  that  he  stared  back  at  her.  "  Hoot-hoot- 

192 


STORIES 

hoot/'  she  cried,  "  wait  till  I  've  heard  your  betters. 
Let  the  pig  stand  forth  and  the  pup  and  the  donkey/' 

Out  came  the  little  squealing  pig,  but  not  very 
far,  so  that  the  roly-poly  pup  might  catch  him  by  the 
tail  in  case  of  need ;  and  out  came  the  roly-poly  pup, 
but  not  very  far,  so  that  the  little  squealing  pig  might 
catch  him  by  the  tail  in  case  of  need ;  and  out  came 
the  kicking,  kicking  donkey,  but  not  very  far,  so  that 
he  might  get  behind  the  pup  and  the  pig  in  case  of 
need. 

"  Pig,  pig/'  said  the  old  witch  owl,  "  how  did  you 
hear  this  ?  " 

And  the  little  pig  began  in  a  squealing  little  voice 
to  tell  her  how  Mother  Sow  had  sent  him  to  the 
wood  to  get  some  beechnuts  for  Piggikin,  the  baby, 
and  how  he  had  heard  the  boy  tell  it  to  the  girl,  and 
how  he  had  set  off  to  ask  her  about  it. 

"  And  Piggikin  is  still  hungry  for  the  beechnuts, 
is  he?  "  asked  the  old  witch  owl,  looking  beyond  the 
little  pig  into  the  darkness. 

'  Yes/'  said  the  little  pig,  in  a  very  little  voice. 

"  And  Mother  Sow  is  getting  anxious  as  the  night 
grows  darker/' 

"  The  night,"  cried  the  little  squealing  pig  and 
the  roly-poly  pup  and  the  kicking,  kicking  donkey, 
drawing  nearer  together.  And  they  looked  fear- 
fully over  their  shoulders  as  the  shadows  of  the 
apple-tree  near  the  barn  moved  nearer  to  them. 

When  the  old  witch  owl  brought  back  her  eyes 

193 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

from  the  darkness,  she  looked  at  the  roly-poly  pup, 
and  he  went  on  to  tell,  in  a  very  loud  voice  to  give 
himself  courage,  how  his  father  had  left  him  to 
guard  the  kennel,  but  ho\v  when  he  heard  the  news 
he,  too,  set  off  to  ask  her  about  it. 

"  And  the  kennel  is  still  unguarded,  is  it?  "  asked 
the  old  witch  owl,  looking  beyond  the  roly-poly  pup 
into  the  darkness. 

u  Yes,"  said  the  roly-poly  pup,  in  a  very  small 
voice. 

"  And  Father  Dog  is  getting  anxious  .as  the  night 
grows  darker." 

"  The  night,"  cried  the  roly-poly  pup  and  the 
kicking,  kicking  donkey  and  the  little  squealing  pig, 
drawing  nearer  together.  And  they  looked  fearfully 
over  their  shoulders  as  the  shadows  of  the  apple-tree 
near  the  barn  moved  nearer  to  them. 

When  the  old  witch  o\vl  brought  her  eyes  back 
from  the  darkness  she  looked  at  the  kicking,  kicking 
donkey,  and  he  straightway  began  to  roar  how  his 
master  had  given  him  a  pack  to  carry,  but  how, 
when  he  heard  the  news,  he  had  kicked  it  off  and 
set  out  to  ask  her  about  it. 

When  he  finished  he  joined  forepaws  with  the  pig 
and  the  pup  and  danced  around  the  fiddle;  the  pig 
singing, 

"  O  for  a  pair  of  wings  to  fly  high," 

and  the  pup  singing, 

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STORIES 

"  O  to  grow  in  a  tree-top  and  see  farther  than 
my  nose/' 

and  the  donkey  singing, 

"  O    to    bray    in    rhyme    and    bring    down    the 
house." 

And  then  they  all  sang  together, 

"  O  for  the  time  when  pigs  had  wings 
And  pups  grew  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time  donkeys  brayed  in  rhyme, 
And  fiddles  danced  the  barn  hops." 

The  fiddle  never  even  noticed  them;  he  still 
stared  at  the  old  witch  owl,  though  he  did  not  dare 
to  say  anything. 

"  You  kicked  off  the  pack,  did  you  ?  "  asked  the 
old  witch  owl,  turning  the  full  blaze  of  her  eyes  on 
the  donkey. 

"  Yes,"  he  gasped,  running  behind  the  pup  and 
the  pig,  and  the  pig  tried  to  catch  the  pup  by  the  tail, 
and  the  pup  tried  to  catch  the  pig  by  the  tail. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  cried  in  a  frightful  voice, 
and  her  feathers  stood  out  straight  around  her, 
"  that  runaways  and  idlers  will  ever  fly  high  or  see 
farther  than  their  noses  or  bring  music  into  the 
world  ?  They  bring  nothing  but  sorrow,  sorrow  to 
those  that  love  them."  And  suddenly  the  old  witch 
owl  looked  out  into  the  night  and  called, 

195 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  Hoo-oo-oo-oo.  Is  it  you-oo-oo?  Is  it  you- 
oo-oo?  " 

Immediately  out  of  the  night  walked  the  mother 
of  the  squealing  pig  and  the  father  of  the  roly-poly 
pup  and  the  master  of  the  kicking,  kicking  donkey. 
And  into  the  sky  came  the  moon.  And  into  the 
moonlight  trooped  crowds  of  boys  and  girls  from 
the  land  of  dreams,  led  by  the  boy  and  girl  the  little 
pig  had  passed  in  the  morning,  more  and  more  of 
them,  till  they  surrounded  the  barn  and  covered  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  apple-tree. 

The  little  squealing  pig  ran  to  his  mother  and 
the  roly-poly  pup  ran  to  his  father  and  the  kicking, 
kicking  donkey  ran  to  his  master;  and  there  was 
great  rejoicing.  The  donkey  begged  his  master 
for  a  beating,  saying  he  richly  deserved  it,  and  so 
did  the  pup  and  the  pig.  But  the  grown-ups  said, 
"  They  '11  do  better  next  time." 

When  the  dream  children  heard  this  they  streamed 
out  into  the  moonlight  back  to  their  dreams,  singing, 

"  The  time  will  come  again  when  pigs  will  have 

wings 

And  pups  will  grow  in  the  tree-tops, 
In  that  good  time  donkeys  will  bray  in  rhyme, 
And  fiddles  will  dance  the  barn  hops." 

And  lo  and  behold!  when  the  fiddle  heard  them 
he  felt  his  ill-humor  slipping  away.  And  as  the 

196 


STORIES 

old  witch  owl  looked  at  them  his  strings  mended 
themselves. 

Dancing  down  the  path  and  out  into  the  moon- 
light after  the  children  he  sounded  his  sweetest  notes 
in  time  to  their  singing;  and  the  little  pig  and  his 
mother  and  the  roly-poly  pup  and  his  father  and  the 
donkey  and  his  master  followed  and  took  up  the 
children's  song.  To  the  very  end  of  it  the  fiddle 
danced  and  played  his  merriest.  At  the  turn  of  the 
road  he  looked  back  at  the  old  witch  owl  and  she  was 
looking  at  him. 

"  The  little  pig's  news  is  good/'  he  cried, 
"  I  'm  off  to  spread  it  far  and  wide." 

And  as  she  sailed  off  into  the  night  he  was  sure 
she  nodded  at  him. 

And  Piggikin  got  the  nuts  after  all,  though  they 
were  a  day  late.  — ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


THE   OWL'S   ANSWER   TO   TOMMY 

ONE  evening  Tommy's  grandmother  had  been  tell- 
ing him  and  his  little  brother  Johnny  a  story  about 
a  brownie  who  used  to  do  all  the  work  in  a  neigh- 
bor's house  before  the  family  got  up  in  the  morning. 
But  the  maids  caught  sight  of  him  one  night,  and 
they  felt  so  sorry  to  see  his  ragged  coat  that  the  next 
night  they  laid  near  his  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  a 

197 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

new  suit  and  a  new  linen  shirt.  Brownie  put  the 
things  on  and  danced  around  the  room,  singing, 

"  What  have  we  here  ?    Hemten  hamten ! 
Here  wrill  I  nevermore  tread  nor  stampen." 

And  away  he  danced  through  the  door  and  never 
came  back  again.  Tommy  wanted  to  know  why,  but 
his  grandmother  could  n't  tell  him.  "  The  Old  Owl 
knows/'  she  said,  "  I  don't.  Ask  her." 

Now  Tommy  was  a  lazy  boy.  He  thought  that  if 
only  he  could  find  a  brownie  that  would  do  his  work 
he  would  save  himself  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  So 
that  night,  while  little  Johnnie  lay  sound  asleep  be- 
side him,  in  the  loft  of  the  kitchen,  as  rosy  and 
rosier  than  an  apple,  he  lay  broad  awake,  thinking 
of  his  grandmother's  story.  "  There  's  an  owl  liv- 
ing in  the  old  shed  by  the  lake,"  he  thought.  "  It 
may  be  the  Old  Owl  herself,  and  she  knows,  Granny 
says.  When  father  's  gone  to  bed  and  the  moon 
rises,  I  '11  go  and  ask  her." 

By  and  by  the  moon  rose  like  gold  and  went  up 
into  the  heavens  like  silver,  flooding  the  fields  with 
a  pale  ghostly  light.  Tom  crept  softly  down  the 
ladder  and  stole  out.  It  was  a  glorious  night,  though 
everything  but  the  wind  and  Tommy  seemed  asleep. 
The  stones,  the  walls,  the  gleaming  lanes,  were  so 
intensely  still,  the  church  tower  in  the  valley  seemed 
awake  and  watching,  but  silent;  the  houses  in  the 
village  round  it  had  all  their  eyes  shut;  and  it 

198 


STORIES 

seemed  to  Tommy  as  if  the  very  fields  had  drawn 
white  sheets  over  them,  and  lay  sleeping  also. 

"  Hoot !  hoot !  "  said  a  voice  from  the  fir  wood 
behind  him.  Somebody  else  was  awake,  then. 
"It's  the  Old  Owl,"  said  Tommy;  and  there  she 
came  swinging  heavily  across  the  moor  with  a  flap- 
ping stately  flight,  and  sailed  into  the  shed  by  the 
lake.  The  old  lady  moved  faster  than  she  appeared 
to  do,  and  though  Tommy  ran  hard  she  was  in  the 
shed  some  time  before  him.  When  he  got  in,  no 
bird  was  to  be  seen,  but  he  heard  a  sound  from 
above,  and  there  sat  the  Old  Owl,  blinking  at  him 
—  Tommy  —  with  yellow  eyes. 

"  Come  up,  come  up ! "  said  she  hoarsely.  She 
could  speak  then!  Beyond  all  doubt  it  was  the 
Old  Owl,  and  none  other. 

"Come  up  here!  come  up  here!"  said  the  Old 
Owl. 

Tommy  had  often  climbed  up  for  fun  to  the 
beam  that  ran  across  the  shed  where  the  Old  OwTl 
sat.  He  climbed  up  now,  and  sat  face  to  face  with 
her,  and  thought  her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  were 
made  of  flame. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  want?  "  said  the  Owl. 

"  Please,"  said  Tommy,  "  can  you  tell  me  where 
to  find  the  brownies,  and  how  to  get  one  to  come 
and  live  with  us?" 

"Oohoo!"  said  the  Owl,  "that's  it,  is  it?  I 
know  of  two  brownies." 

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STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  Hurrah!"  said  Tommy.  "  Where  do  they 
live?" 

"  In  your  house,"  said  the  Owl. 

Tommy  was  aghast. 

"  In  our  house !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Whereabouts  ? 
Let  me  rummage  them  out.  Why  do  they  do 
nothing?  " 

"  One  of  them  is  too  young,"  said  the  Owl. 

"  But  why  does  n't  the  other  work  ?  "  asked 
Tommy. 

"  He  is  idle,  he  is  idle,"  said  the  Owl,  and  she 
gave  herself  such  a  shake  as  she  said  it  that  the 
fluff  went  flying  through  the  shed,  and  Tommy 
nearly  tumbled  off  the  beam  in  fright. 

"  Then  we  don't  want  him,"  said  he.  "  What  is 
the  use  of  having  brownies  if  they  do  nothing  to 
help  us?  But  perhaps  if  you  would  tell  me  where 
to  find  them,"  said  Tommy,  "  I  could  tell  them  what 
to  do." 

"  Could  you  ?  "  said  the  Owl.  "  Oohoo !  oohoo !  " 
and  Tommy  could  n't  tell  whether  she  were  hooting 
or  laughing. 

"  Of  course  I  could,"  he  said.  "  They  might  be 
up  and  sweep  the  house,  and  light  the  fire,  and  spread 
the  tables,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  before  Father 
came  down.  The  Brownie  did  all  that  in  Granny's 
mother's  young  days.  And  they  might  tidy  the 
room,  and  fetch  the  turf,  and  pick  up  my  chips,  and 
sort  Granny's  scraps.  Oh !  there  's  plenty  to  do." 

200 


STORIES 

"  So  there  is,"  said  the  Owl.  "  Oohoo !  Well, 
I  can  tell  you  where  to  find  one  of  the  brownies; 
and  if  you  can  find  him,  he  will  tell  you  where  his 
brother  is.  But  all  this  depends  upon  whether  you 
feel  equal  to  undertaking  it,  and  whether  you  will 
follow  my  directions/' 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  go,"  said  Tommy,  "  and  I 
will  do  as  you  tell  me.  I  feel  sure  I  could  persuade 
them  to  come;  if  they  only  knew  how  every  one 
would  love  them  if  they  made  themselves  useful!  " 

"Oohoo!  oohoo !"  said  the  Owl.  ".Now  listen. 
You  must  go  to  the  north  side  of  the  lake  when  the 
moon  is  shining —  ("I  know  brownies  like  water/' 
muttered  Tommy)  —  and  turn  yourself  round  three 
times,  saying  this  charm: 

'  Twist  me,  and  turn  me,  and  show  me  the  Elf  — 
I  looked  in  the  water,  and  saw  — ' 

When  you  have  got  so  far  look  into  the  water,  and 
think  of  a  word  that  will  rhyme  with  Elf,  and  at  the 
same  moment  you  will  see  the  brownie." 

"  Is  the  brownie  a  merman,"  said  Tommy,  "  that 
he  lives  under  water?  " 

'  That  depends  on  whether  he  has  a  fish's 
tail,"  said  the  Owl,  "  and  that  you  can  see  for 
yourself." 

"  Well,  the  moon  is  shining,  so  I  shall  go,"  said 
Tommy.  "  Gooby-by,  and  thank  you,  Ma'am ;  "  and 

201 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

he  jumped  down  and  went,  saying  to  himself,  "  I 
believe  he  is  a  merman,  all  the  same,  or  else  how 
could  he  live  in  the  lake?  " 

The  moon  shone  very  brightly  on  the  center  of 
the  lake.  Tommy  knew  the  place  well,  for  there 
was  an  Echo  there,  with  whom  he  had  often  talked. 
Round  the  edges  grew  rushes  and  water  plants, 
and  turning  himself  three  times,  as  the  Old  Owl 
had  told  him,  he  repeated  the  charm: 

"  Twist  me  and  turn  me  and  show  me  the  Elf  — 
I  looked  in  the  water  and  saw  —  " 

Now  for  it !  He  looked  in,  and  saw  —  his  own 
face. 

"  Why,  there  's  no  one  there  but  myself !  "  said 
Tommy.  "  And  what  can  the  word  be  ?  I  must 
have  done  it  wrong.  It  cannot  be  myself/' 

"  Myself!"  said  the  Echo. 

Tommy  was  almost  surprised  to  find  the  Echo 
awake  at  this  time  of  night. 

"  Much  you  know  about  it !  "  said  he.  "  Belf ! 
Celf!  Delf!  Felf!  Helf!  Jelf!  There  can't  be 
a  word  to  fit  it.  And  then  to  look  for  a  brownie  and 
see  nothing  but  myself !  " 

"  Myself,"  said  the  Echo. 

"Will  you  be  quiet?"  said  Tommy.  "If  you 
would  tell  me  the  word  there  would  be  some  mean- 
ing in  your  interference;  but  to  roar  '  Myself! '  at 
me,  which  neither  rhymes  nor  runs  —  it  does  rhyme, 

202 


STORIES 

though,  as  it  happens,"  he  added;  "  how  very  odd! 
it  runs  too  — 

'  Twist  me  and  turn  me  and  show  me  the  Elf  — 
I  looked  in  the  water  and  saw  myself/  — 

which  I  certainly  did.  What  can  it  mean  ?  The  Old 
Owl  knows,  as  Granny  would  say ;  so  I  shall  go  back 
and  ask  her/' 

And  back  he  went.  There  sat  the  Old  Owl  as 
before. 

"  Oohoo ! "  said  she,  as  Tommy  climbed  up. 
"  What  did  you  see  in  the  lake  ?  " 

"  I  saw  nothing  but  myself/'  said  Tommy,  in- 
dignantly. 

"And  what  did  you  expect  to  see?"  asked  the 
Owl. 

"  I  expected  to  see  a  brownie/'  said  Tommy; 
"  you  told  me/' 

"  And  what  are  brownies  like,  pray?  "  inquired  the 
Owl. 

"  The  one  Granny  knew  was  a  useful  little  fellow, 
something  like  a  man/'  said  Tommy. 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  Owl,  "  but  you  know  at  present 
this  one  is  an  idle  little  fellow,  something  like  a  little 
man.  Oohoo !  oohoo !  Good  night,  or  rather,  good 
morning,  for  it  is  long  past  midnight."  And  the  old 
lady  began  to  shake  her  feathers  for  a  start.  "  Stay," 
said  she,  "  I  think  I  had  better  take  you  home/' 

"  I  know  the  way,  thank  you/'  said  Tommy. 
203 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  Do  as  I  say,"  said  the  Owl.  "  Lean  your  full 
weight  against  me  and  shut  your  eyes." 

Tommy  laid  his  head  against  the  Owl's  feathers. 
Down  he  sank  and  sank.  He  jumped  up  with  a  start 
to  save  himself,  opened  his  eyes,  and  found  that  he 
was  sitting  in  the  loft  with  Johnnie  sleeping  by  his 
side. 

"  Get  up,  Johnnie,  I  Ve  a  story  to  tell  you," 
he  cried.  And  he  told  Johnnie  all  about  it. 

And  after  that   Tommy  and  Johnnie  were  the 
most  useful  little  brownies  in  that  whole  country. 
—  From  MRS.  EWING'S  BROWNIES 


THE    STORY   OF   COQUERICO 

HEAR  the  story  of  this  one. 

He  was  a  queer-looking  little  creature.  He  came 
out  in  the  brood  of  a  handsome  black  Spanish  hen. 
All  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  as  pretty  as  you 
would  see  in  a  day's  walk,  but  he  was  very  odd- 
looking.  He  had  only  one  good  eye,  one  good  wing, 
and  one  good  leg  to  carry  him  about,  hippety-hop, 
hippety-hop.  When  his  mother  saw  he  was  crippled, 
she  at  once  loved  him  best,  and  gave  him  the  splen- 
did name  of  Coquerico.  But  hear  about  him. 

Maybe  you  think  a  one-eyed,  one-armed,  one- 
legged  chick  like  Coquerico  would  be  good  and 
gentle.  Why,  if  one  of  his  brothers  ran  against  him 

204 


STORIES 

without  meaning  to,  Coquerico  flew  at  the  poor 
fellow  and  called  him  names.  And  he  was  so  con- 
ceited that  he  thought  himself  better  than  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  that  he  knew  more  than  his 
mother. 

So  one  day  he  hippety-hopped  up  to  his  mother 
and  said,  "  My  lady  mother,  I  am  too  good  for  this 
family;  I  should  be  in  the  king's  court.  I 'm  off 
to  Madrid,  where  the  king  lives/' 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  poor  little  one?  " 
cried  his  mother.  "  Who  has  put  such  nonsense 
into  your  head?  Where  would  my  little  crippled 
one  find  a  home  like  this  —  mulberry  trees  to  shade 
him,  a  white-washed  henroost,  a  high  dunghill, 
worms  and  corn  in  plenty,  brothers  and  sisters  that 
are  fond  of  him,  and  a  mother  who  loves  him  dearly. 
Stay  where  you  are,  my  child;  believe  me  I  know 
what  is  best  for  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  said  Coquerico,  saucily.  "  I 
don't.  I  wish  to  go  out  into  the  world,  where  every- 
one may  hear  of  me,  I  am  so  clever.  I  'm  off  to 
Madrid  to  see  the  king." 

"  But,  my  son,  have  you  never  looked  in  the 
brook?  "  asked  his  mother.  "  Don't  you  know  that 
you  have  only  one  eye,  one  wing,  and  one  leg  ?  To 
make  your  way  in  the  world  you  need  the  sharp  eyes 
of  a  fox,  the  swift  wings  of  a  hawk,  and  the  many 
soft  legs  of  a  spider.  Once  outside,  you  are  lost." 

"  My   good    mother/'    said    Coquerico,    just    as 
205 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

saucily,  "  I  am  well  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  I 
am  better  than  my  family  and  must  find  people  who 
can  see  how  clever  I  am.  So  I  'm  off  to  Madrid  to 
see  the  king." 

"  Well,  my  son,"  said  the  anxious  mother-hen, 
"  listen  to  your  mother's  last  words.  Keep  away 
from  people  known  as  cooks  and  scullions ;  you  will 
know  them  by  their  paper  caps,  tucked  up  sleeves, 
and  great  sharp  knives." 

So  away  went  Coquerico,  making  believe  not  to 
see  the  tear  in  his  mother's  eye.  Without  caring 
for  those  he  left,  he  hippety-hopped  out  the  gate 
and  stopped  only  long  enough  to  crow  three  times, 
"  Cock-a-doodle-doo !  "  Then  over  the  fields  he 
went  hippety-hop,  hippety-hop. 

By  and  by  he  came  to  a  small  brook  almost  choked 
by  a  couple  of  dead  leaves.  "  My  friend,"  it  called 
out  to  him,  "  will  you  free  me  that  I  may  flow  on  ? 
One  stroke  of  your  beak  is  enough." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  brook-sweeper?"  answered 
Coquerico.  "  Help  yourself ;  I  'm  off  to  Madrid  to 
see  the  king."  And  on  he  went,  hippety-hop,  hippety- 
hop. 

A  little  farther  on  Coquerico  saw  the  wind  lying 
breathless  on  the  ground.  "  Dear  friend,  help  me," 
it  cried ;  "  here  on  earth  we  should  help  one  another. 
If  you  will  fan  me  a  little  with  your  wing  I  shall  have 
strength  to  rise  to  my  place  among  the  clouds,  where 
I  am  needed  for  the  next  whirlwind." 

206 


STORIES 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  wind-bellows/"  answered  Co- 
querico ;  "  help  yourself.  I  am  off  to  Madrid  to  see 
the  king/'  And  on  he  went,  hippety-hop,  hippety- 
hop. 

A  little  farther  on  he  came  to  a  newly  mown 
field,  where  the  farmers  had  piled  up  the  weeds  to 
burn  them.  As  he  stopped  his  hippety-hop  to  search 
among  a  smoking  heap  for  a  kernel  of  corn,  he  saw 
a  little  flame,  barely  flickering,  it  was  so  nearly  out.  • 

"  My  dear  friend,"  cried  the  flame,  faintly,  "  will 
you  bring  me  a  few  dry  straws  to  rekindle  me  that 
I  may  burn  brightly?  " 

"Do  I  look  like  a  servant?"  cried  Coquerico, 
haughtily;  "  I  '11  teach  you  to  call  out  to  a  fowl  that 
has  business  with  the  king."  And  he  leaped 
on  the  heap  of  dried  weeds  and  trampled  it 
down  till  it  smothered  the  flame !  Then  he  flapped 
his  one  wing  and  crowed  three  times,  "  Cock-a- 
doodle-doo,"  as  if  he  had  done  something  to  be 
proud  of. 

And  so  strutting  and  crowing,  though  he  had  to 
go  hippety-hop,  he  arrived  at  Madrid  and  the  king's 
palace.  Grand  and  beautiful  as  it  was,  he  did  not 
stop  to  look  at  it,  but  made  for  the  hen  yard,  stop- 
ping every  second  step  to  crow,  "  Cock-a-doodle," 
to  tell  the  king  and  all  the  world  he  was  coming. 

In  the  hen  yard  there  was  of  course  no  king,  but 
a  boy  with  a  paper  cap  on  his  head  and  sleeves 
tucked  up  and  a  great  sharp  knife  in  his  hand.  "  A 

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STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

scullion,  I  suppose,"  said  Coquerico  to  himself,  "  but 
he  will  not  stop  me;  I  have  business  with  the  king." 

"  Well,  you  're  an  odd  one,"  cried  the  boy,  coming 
over  to  look  at  the  new-comer.  "  Cook  wants  a 
rare  bird  for  the  king's  dinner,  you  're  just  in  time." 
And  he  seized  Coquerico  and  carried  him  into  the 
kitchen. 

Here  the  cook  popped  him  into  a  pot  of  water 
and  left  him,  and  with  the  boy  went  out  of  the 
kitchen  to  attend  to  something  else. 

The  water  began  to  get  warm  and  then  hot. 
"  Oh,  Madame  Water,"  cried  Coquerico,  becoming 
all  at  once  as  meek  as  a  dove,  "  good  and  gentle 
water,  best  and  purest  in  the  world,  do  not  scald 
me,  I  beg  of  you." 

"Did  you  show  any  pity,  selfish  wretch?"  an- 
swered the  Water,  boiling  with  indignation.  Co- 
querico leaped  out  of  the  pot,  knocking  off  the  cover, 
only  to  land  on  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  Fire,  Fire,  do  not  burn  me,"  he  cried, 
dancing  around  on  his  back;  "oh,  beautiful  and 
brilliant  flame,  brother  of  the  sun,  and  cousin  of  the 
shining  diamond,  do  not  roast  me." 

"Did  you  have  any  pity,  you  selfish  wretch?" 
cried  the  Fire,  blazing  so  fiercely  with  anger  that  the 
chick  in  frightful  pain  leaped  out  of  a  window 
near  by. 

But  as  he  landed  on  the  flagging  the  Wind  caught 
him  and  whirled  him  up.  "  Oh,  Wind,"  shrieked 

208 


STORIES 

Coquerico,  faintly,  "  oh,  kindly  Wind,  oh,  cooling 
breeze,  you  make  me  so  dizzy  my  head  reels.  Pray 
let  me  down  that  I  may  rest." 

"  Let  you  rest,"  roared  the  Wind,  "  wait  and  I  '11 
teach  you,  you  selfish  wretch." 

And  with  one  blast  it  sent  him  up  so  high  that 
as  he  fell  down  he  stuck  on  a  steeple. 

There,  if  you  look,  you  may  see  him  to  this  very 
day,  forced  at  last  to  help  others  in  this  world,  a 
weathervane. 

—  SPANISH  FOLK  TALE 


THE    SCARECROW 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  an  old  black  crow,  as 
old  as  the  hills.  And  once  there  was  a  scarecrow, 
brand  new  to  his  business.  The  scarecrow  was  made 
of  a  corn  stalk  wearing  the  farmer's  cast-off  hat  and 
coat. 

The  very  first  day  he  took  up  his  post  it^  the  corn- 
field, the  old  black  crow,  flying  over,  laughed  at  his 
disguise. 

"  Caw,  caw,  caw,"  she  cried, 

"  I  know  you,  poor  old  stalk, 
Bloodless  is  your  body, 

You  neither  run  nor  walk." 

The  scarecrow  kept  his  temper  and  said  nothing, 
and  this  looks  as  if  he  were  clever.  For  the  old  crow 

209 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

had  to  take  herself  off  without  knowing  what  he  was 
thinking  of. 

Now  the  scarecrow  was  clever.  He  made  friends 
with  Magic  Darkness  and  Moving  Wind.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  frighten  thieving  crows  away, 
no  matter  how  old  and  knowing  they  might  be. 
And  that  very  evening  when  the  old  black  crow,  as 
old  as  the  hills,  came  flying  toward  the  cornfield, 
with  her  five  black  children  after  her,  he  whispered, 
"  Now,  Magic  Darkness  and  Moving  Wind,  help 
me." 

And  they  did.  Magic  Darkness  came  down  and 
hid  his  headlessness,  and  Moving  Wind  bent  his 
body  and  pushed  his  arms  together  so  that  he  looked 
exactly  as  if  he  were  the  farmer  stooping  to  load  a 
gun. 

When  the  old  black  crow  saw  this,  she  whispered, 
"  Turn  back,  children,  and  don't  speak  for  your 
lives ; "  and  although  she  was  as  old  as  the  hills, 
she  turned  tail  as  fast  as  she  could,  with  her  five 
black  children  after  her.  When  she  reached  her 
nest  built  of  sticks  in  the  fork  of  an  apple-tree  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  she  breathed  more  freely. 

"  Oh,  my  children,"  she  panted,  "  it  was  no  corn- 
stalk scarecrow  at  all;  it  was  the  farmer  himself, 
alive  and  loading  his  gun  for  us." 

But  when  she  awoke  in  the  morning  light,  she  felt 
rather  puzzled.  "  I  Ve  seen  a  good  many  scarecrows 
in  my  time,"  she  said ;  "  I  should  know  a  man  from 

210 


STORIES 

a  shadow.  I  '11  go  and  have  a  look  at  him  in  broad 
daylight/' 

So  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  and  the  crow 
children  had  gone  to  school  to  hear  how  featherless 
children  make  crow's  nests  with  their  fingers,  she 
spread  her  wings  for  the  cornfield  where  she  had 
seen  the  brand  new  scarecrow.  There  he  stood  as 
plain  a  humbug  as  ever  deceived  the  eyes  of  a  blind 
crow. 

"  I  Jm  not  old  enough  to  be  blind  yet,"  she  said; 
"  you  're  a  dried-up  cornstalk  if  ever  there  was  one. 
You  Jll  not  frighten  me  this  evening  and  send  me  and 
my  children  scurrying  home."  And  she  sang 
mockingly, 

"  Caw,  caw,  caw, 

I  know  you,  poor  old  stalk, 
Bloodless  is  your  body, 

You  neither  run  nor  walk." 

But  the  clever  scarecrow  kept  his  temper  and  an- 
swered never  a  word.  So  again  the  old  crow  had  to 
take  herself  off  no  wiser  about  his  thoughts. 

Well,  toward  evening  along  came  flying  again  the 
old  black  crow,  as  old  as  the  hills,  with  her  five  black 
children  after  her.  And  again  the  scarecrow  whis- 
pered, "  Now,  Magic  Darkness  and  Moving  Wind, 
help  me."  And  they  did.  Magic  Darkness  came 
down  and  hid  his  headlessness,  and  Moving  Wind 
bent  his  body  and  pushed  his  arms  together,  then 

211 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

straightened  him  suddenly,  like  this,  halfway,  and 
held  his  arms  out  in  front,  one  hand  beyond  the 
other,  so,  as  if  he  were  searching  for  the  trigger  of 
a  gun. 

When  the  old  crow  saw  him  she  cried,  "  Turn 
back,  children,  at  once,"  turning  herself  so  sud- 
denly that  she  bumped  into  the  beak  of  the  first  little 
crow  behind  her.  It  was  not  until  she  reached  her 
nest  built  of  sticks  in  the  fork  of  the  apple-tree  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  had  rested  a  minute, 
that  she  breathed  freely. 

"  Oh,  my  children/'  she  said,  "  without  doubt  it 
was  no  scarecrow;  it  was  the  farmer,  alive,  and 
placing  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  his  gun  to 
shoot  us." 

But  again  when  she  awoke  in  the  morning  light 
she  felt  puzzled.  "  It  's  very  strange,"  she  said. 
"  I  Ve  seen  a  good  many  scarecrows  in  my  time.  I 
should  know  a  man  from  a  shadow.  I  '11  have  an- 
other look  at  him  in  the  broad  daylight." 

So,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  and  the  crow 
children  had  gone  to  school  to  hear  how  featherless 
grown-ups  get  crow's  feet  on  their  faces,  she  spread 
her  wings  for  the  cornfield.  There  stood  the  scare- 
crow as  plain  a  humbug  as  ever  deceived  the  eyes  of 
a  blind  crow. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  unless  blindness  is  catching 
and  the  bats  gave  it  to  me,  you  're  a  dried-up  corn 
stalk  if  ever  there  was  one.  If  an  old  crow  that  was 

212 


STORIES 

living  before  you  were  even  thought  of  knows  any- 
thing, you  '11  not  frighten  me  this  evening !  "  And 
she  sang  mockingly, 

"  Caw,  caw,  caw, 

I  know  you,  poor  old  stalk, 
Bloodless  is  your  body, 

You  neither  run  nor  walk." 

But  the  clever  scarecrow  kept  his  temper,  and  an- 
swered never  a  word.  So  again  the  old  crow  had  to 
take  herself  off  no  wiser  about  his  thoughts. 

Well,  all  good  things  go  in  threes,  as  every  child 
who  knows  more  than  a  crow  can  tell  you.  So  the 
third  evening  along  came  flying  the  old  black  crow, 
as  old  as  the  hills,  with  her  five  black  children  after 
her.  And  the  third  time  he  whispered,  "  Now, 
Magic  Darkness  and  Moving  Wind,  help  me." 
And  the  third  time  they  did.  Magic  Darkness  came 
down  and  hid  his  headlessness,  and  Moving  Wind 
bent  him  sharply  down,  lifted  him  halfway  with  his 
arms  held  out,  one  hand  beyond  the  other,  like  this  ; 
then  suddenly  straightened  him  up  with  arms  point- 
ing up  at  the  crows. 

"  Don't  shoot,  dear  farmer,"  shrieked  the  old 
crow.  She  had  n't  time  to  turn  tail.  "  My  children 
and  I  will  let  your  corn  alone  until  you  have 
harvested  it." 

Immediately  Moving  Wind  dropped  the  scare- 
crow's armless  sleeves  and  brought  his  hat  back  to 

213 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

its  position  on  the  top  of  the  stalk.  And  away  flew 
the  old  crow,  as  old  as  the  hills,  with  her  five  black 
children  after  her.  When  she  reached  her  nest  built 
of  sticks  in  the  fork  of  the  apple-tree  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  and  she  had  rested  two  minutes,  she  said, 
"  My  children,  keep  away  from  that  field  until  I 
tell  you  the  corn  has  been  gathered  in." 

When  the  corn  was  harvested,  the  old  black  crow 
and  her  five  black  children  went  gleaning  to  pick  up 
the  kernels  that  had  dropped,  and  fat  eating  they 
had.  And  the  scarecrow  let  them  enjoy  their  meal 
in  peace;  his  duty  was  done. 

—  ANGELA  M.  KEYES 


OEYVIND   AND    MARIT 

THERE  was  once  a  boy  named  Oeyvind  who  lived  in 
a  hut  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  rocky  hill.  On  the  roof 
of  the  hut  walked  a  little  goat.  It  was  Oeyvind's 
own.  Oeyvind  kept  it  there  so  that  it  should  not  go 
astray,  and  he  carried  up  leaves  and  grass  to  it. 

But  one  fine  day  the  goat  leaped  down,  and  away 
it  went  up  the  hill  until  it  came  where  it  never 
had  been  before.  When  Oeyvind  ran  out  of  the 
hut  after  dinner,  he  missed  his  little  goat  and  at 
once  thought  of  the  fox.  He  looked  all  about,  call- 
ing, "  Killy-killy-killy-goat!  " 

"  Bay-ay-ay,"  said  the  goat,  from  the  top  of  the 
214 


STORIES 

hill,  as  it  cocked  its  head  on  one  side  and  looked  down. 
And  at  the  side  of  the  goat  kneeled  a  little  girl. 

"  Is  it  yours,  this  goat?  "  she  asked. 

Oeyvind  stared  at  her,  with  eyes  and  mouth  wide 
open,  and  asked,  "Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Marit,  mother's  little  one,  father's  fiddle, 
grandfather's  elf,  four  years  old  in  the  autumn,  two 
days  after  the  frost  nights." 

"  Are  you,  though?  "  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  could 
get  his  breath. 

"  Is  it  yours,  this  goat  ?  "    she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  I.  should  like  it.    You  will  not  give  it  to  me?  " 

"  No,  that  I  won't." 

Marit  lay  down,  kicking  her  legs  and  looking  up 
at  him,  and  then  she  said,  "  Not  if  I  give  you  a 
butter  cake  for  him?" 

Oeyvind  had  eaten  butter  cake  only  once  in  his 
life,  when  his  grandfather  came  to  visit;  anything 
like  it  he  had  never  eaten  before  nor  since.  "  Let 
me  see  the  butter  cake  first,"  said  he. 

It  did  n't  take  Marit  long  to  pull  out  a  large  cake. 
"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  threw  it  down  to  him. 

"  Ow,  it  went  to  pieces,"  said  the  boy.  He  gath- 
ered up  every  crumb,  and  he  could  n't  help  tasting  a 
very  small  one.  That  was  so  good  he  had  to  eat 
another.  Before  he  knew  it  he  had  eaten  up  the 
whole  cake. 

"  Now  the  goat  is  mine,"  said  the  girl,  and  she 

215 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

laughed  and  clapped  her  hands.  The  boy  stopped 
with  the  last  bit  in  his  mouth. 

"  Wait  a  little  while  ?  "  he  begged,  for  he  loved 
his  little  goat. 

The  small  girl  got  up  quickly.  "  No,  the  goat  is 
mine,"  she  said,  and  she  threw  her  arms  around  its 
neck.  She  loosened  one  of  her  garters  and  fastened 
it  round  the  goat's  neck  and  began  pulling  the  goat 
after  her.  The  goat  would  not  follow :  it  stretched 
its  neck  down  to  see  Oeyvind.  "  Bay-ay-ay,"  it  said. 
But  the  girl  took  hold  of  its  fleece  with  one  hand  and 
pulled  the  string  with  the  other,  and  said,  sweetly, 
"  Come,  little  goat,  you  shall  go  into  my  room  and 
eat  out  of  my  apron."  And  then  she  sang, 

"  Come,  boy's  goat, 
Come,  mother's  calf, 
Come,  mewing  cat 
In  snow-white  shoes; 
Come,  yellow  ducks, 
Come  out  of  your  hiding-place; 
Come  little  chickens, 
Who  can  hardly  go; 
Come,  my  doves 
With  soft  feathers ; 
See,  the  grass  is  wet, 
But  the  sun  does  you  good : 
And  early,  early,  is  it  in  summer, 
But  call  for  the  autumn,  and  it  will  come." 
216 


STORIES 

And  away  she  went  with  the  goat,  calling  on  all 
living  things  she  loved  to  follow  her. 

The  boy  stood  still  as  a  stone.  He  had  taken 
care  of  the  goat  since  the  winter  before,  and  he  had 
never  thought  he  would  lose  it.  But  now  it  was 
gone  in  a  moment  and  he  would  never  see  it  again. 
He  lay  down  and  wept. 

His  mother  came  along  and  saw  him  crying. 
"  What  are  you  crying  about?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  the  goat,  the  goat !  " 

"Yes,  where  is  the  goat?"  asked  the  mother, 
looking  up  at  the  roof. 

"  It  will  never  come  back,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Why,  how  could  that  happen!  " 

He  could  not  tell  her  at  once. 

"Has  the  fox  taken  it?" 

"  No,  oh,  no." 

"  Are  your  wits  gone,"  said  his  mother;  "  what 
has  become  of  the  goat?  " 

"Oh-h-h  — I  sold  it  for  — for  — a  cake!" 

As  soon  as  he  had  said  it  he  knew  what  it  was  to 
sell  the  goat  for  a  cake. 

"  What  can  the  little  goat  think  of  you,  to  sell 
him  for  a  cake?  "  said  his  mother. 

The  boy  was  so  sorry  that  he  said  to  himself  he 
would  never  again  do  anything  wrong.  He  would 
never  cut  the  thread  on  the  spinning-wheel,  he  would 
never  let  the  goats  out  of  the  fold,  he  would  never 
go  down  to  the  sea  alone.  He  fell  asleep  where  he 

217 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

lay,  and  he  dreamed  that  the  little  goat  had  gone  to 
heaven  and  that  he  sat  alone  on  the  roof  and  could 
not  go  to  it. 

Suddenly  there  came  something  wet  close  up  to 
his  ear.  He  started  up.  "  Bay-ay-ay !  "  it  said. 
It  was  the  little  goat  come  back. 

"What,  have  you  come  back?"  he  cried.  He 
jumped  up,  took  it  by  the  forelegs,  and  danced  with 
it  as  if  it  were  a  brother.  He  tickled  it  and  pulled 
its  beard,  and  set  off  with  it  to  the  hut  to  tell  his 
mother  the  good  news. 

Just  then  he  heard  someone  behind  him;  it  was 
the  little  girl. 

"  Oh,  so  it  was  you  brought  it  back?  "   said  he. 

"  Grandfather  would  not  let  me  keep  it,"  said  she; 
"  he  is  waiting  near  for  me." 

A  sharp  voice  called  out,  "  Now !  "  It  was  her 
grandfather's,  and  she  remembered  what  she  was  to 
do.  She  put  one  of  her  muddy  hands  into  Oeyvind's 
and  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  taking  the  little 
goat."  Then  she  could  keep  in  no  longer;  she  threw 
her  arms  around  the  goat's  neck  and  wept  aloud. 

"  You  may  have  the  goat,"  said  Oeyvind. 

"  Make  haste,"  cried  grandfather.  So  Marit  had 
to  go,  and  Oeyvind  had  his  little  goat  again. 

—  BjORNSTJERNE   BjORNSON 


2X8 


STORIES 


BLUNDER 

•  * 

BLUNDER  was  going  to  the  Wishing-Gate,  to  wish 
for  a  pair  of  Shetland  Ponies,  and  a  little  coach, 
like  Tom  Thumb's.  And  of  course  you  may  have 
your  wish,  if  you  once  get  there.  But  the  thing  is, 
to  find  it ;  for  it  is  not,  as  you  imagine,  a  great  gate, 
with  a  tall  marble  pillar  on  each  side,  and  a  sign 
over  the  top,  like  this,  WISHING-GATE,  —  but 
just  an  old  stile,  made  of  three  sticks.  Put  up  two 
fingers,  cross  them  on  the  top  with  another  finger, 
and  you  have  it  exactly,  —  the  way  it  looks,  I  mean, 
—  a  worm-eaten  stile,  in  a  meadow;  and  as  there 
are  plenty  of  old  stiles  in  meadows,  how  are  you 
to  know  which  is  the  one? 

Blunder's  fairy  godmother  knew,  but  then  she 
could  not  tell  him,  for  that  was  not  according  to 
fairy  rules  and  regulations.  She  could  only  direct 
him  to  follow  the  road,  and  ask  the  way  of  the  first 
owl  he  met;  and  over  and  over  she  charged  him, 
for  Blunder  was  a  very  careless  little  boy,  and 
seldom  found  anything,  "  Be  sure  you  don't  miss 
him,  —  be  sure  you  don't  pass  him  by."  And  so 
far  Blunder  had  come  on  very  well,  for  the  road 
was  straight;  but  at  the  turn  it  forked.  Should 
he  go  through  the  wood  or  turn  to  the  right  ?  There 
was  an  owl  nodding  in  a  tall  oak-tree,  the  first  owl 
Blunder  had  seen;  but  he  was  a  little  afraid  to 

219 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

wake  him  up,  for  Blunder's  fairy  godmother  had 
told  him  that  this  was  a  great  philosopher,  who  sat 
up  all  night  to  study  the  habits  of  frogs  and  mice, 
and  knew  everything  but  what  went  on  in  the  day- 
light, under  his  nose;  and  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing better  to  say  to  this  great  philosopher  than, 
"  Good  Mr.  Owl,  will  you  please  show  me  the  way 
to  the  Wishing-Gate  ?  " 

"  Eh!  what 's  that?  "  cried  the  owl,  starting  out 
of  his  nap.  "  Have  you  brought  me  a  frog?  " 

"  No/'  said  Blunder,  "  I  did  not  know  that  you 
would  like  one.  Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to 
Wishing-Gate  ?" 

"  Wishing-Gate !  Wishing-Gate !  "  hooted  the 
owl,  very  angry.  "  Winks  and  naps!  how  dare  you 
disturb  me  for  such  a  thing  as  that?  Do  you  take 
me  for  a  mile-stone  ?  Follow  your  nose,  sir,  follow 
your  nose!" — and,  ruffling  up  his  feathers,  the 
owl  was  asleep  again  in  a  moment. 

But  how  could  Blunder  follow  his  nose?  His 
nose  would  turn  to  the  right,  or  take  him  through 
the  woods,  whichever  way  his  legs  went,  and  "  what 
was  the  use  of  asking  the  owl,"  thought  Blunder, 
"  if  this  was  all?  "  While  he  hesitated,  a  chipmunk 
came  scurrying  down  the  path,  and,  seeing  Blunder, 
stopped  short  with  a  little  squeak. 

"  Good  Mrs.  Chipmunk,"  said  Blunder,  "  can 
you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  Wishing-Gate?" 

"  I  can't,  indeed,"  answered  the  chipmunk, 
220 


STORIES 

politely.  "  What  with  getting  in  nuts,  and  the  care 
of  a  young  family,  I  have  so  little  time  to  visit  any- 
thing! But  if  you  will  follow  the  brook,  you  will 
find  an  old  water-sprite  under  a  slanting  stone,  over 
which  the  water  pours  all  day  with  a  noise  like 
wabble !  wabble !  who,  I  have  no  doubt,  can  tell  you 
all  about  it." 

So  Blunder  went  on  up  the  brook,  and,  seeing 
nothing  of  the  water-sprite,  or  the  slanting-stone, 
was  just  saying  to  himself,  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
where  he  is,  —  I  can't  find  it,"  when  he  spied  a  frog 
sitting  on  a  wet  stone. 

"  Mr.  Frog,"  asked  Blunder,  "  can  you  tell  me 
the  way  to  the  Wishing-Gate  ?  " 

"  I  cannot/'  said  the  frog.  "  I  am  very  sorry, 
but  the  fact  is,  I  am  an  artist.  Young  as  I  am,  my 
voice  is  already  remarked  at  our  concerts,  and  I 
devote  myself  so  entirely  to  my  profession  of  music 
that  I  have  no  time  for  general  information.  But 
in  a  pine-tree  beyond,  you  will  find  an  old  crow, 
who,  I  am  quite  sure,  can  show  you  the  way,  as  he 
is  a  traveler,  and  a  bird  of  an  inquiring  turn  of 
mind." 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  pine  is,  —  I  am  sure  I 
can  never  find  him,"  answered  Blunder,  discon- 
tentedly; but  still  he  went  on  up  the  brook,  till,  hot 
and  tired,  and  out  of  patience  at  seeing  neither  crow 
nor  pine,  he  sat  down  under  a  great  tree  to  rest. 
There  he  heard  tiny  voices  squabbling.  And  look- 

221 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

ing  about  him,  Blunder  spied  a  bee,  quarreling 
with  a  morning-glory  elf,  who  was  shutting  up  the 
morning-glory  in  his  face. 

"  Elf,  do  you  know  which  is  the  way  to  the 
Wishing-Gate  ?  "  asked  Blunder. 

"  No,"  said  the  elf,  "  I  don't  know  anything 
about  geography.  I  was  always  too  delicate  to 
study.  But  if  you  will  keep  on  in  this  path,  you  will 
find  a  Dream-man,  coming  down  from  fairyland, 
with  his  bags  of  dreams  on  his  shoulder;  and  if 
anybody  can  tell  you  about  the  Wishing-Gate,  he 
can." 

"  But  how  can  I  find  him?  "  asked  Blunder,  more 
and  more  impatient. 

"  I  don't  knowr,  I  am  sure,"  answered  the  elf, 
"  unless  you  look  for  him." 

So  there  was  no  help  for  it  but  to  go  on;  and 
presently  Blunder  passed  the  Dream-man,  asleep 
under  a  witch-hazel,  with  his  bags  of  good  and  bad 
dreams  laid  over  him  to  keep  him  from  fluttering 
away.  But  Blunder  had  a  habit  of  not  using  his 
eyes,  for  at  home,  when  told  to  find  anything,  he 
always  said,  "  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  or,  "  I 
can't  find  it,"  and  then  his  mother  or  sister  went 
straight  and  found  it  for  him.  So  he  passed  the 
Dream-man  without  seeing  him,  and  went  on  till  he 
stumbled  on  Jack-o'-Lantern. 

"  Can  you  show  me  the  way  to  the  Wishing- 
Gate?"  said  Blunder. 

222 


STORIES 

"  Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  answered  Jack,  and, 
catching  up  his  lantern,  set  out  at  once. 

Blunder  followed  close,  but,  in  watching  the  lan- 
tern, he  forgot  to  look  to  his  feet,  and  fell  into  a 
hole  filled  with  black  mud. 

"  I  say !  the  Wishing-Gate  is  not  down  there," 
called  out  Jack,  whisking  off  among  the  tree- 
tops. 

"  But  I  can't  come  up  there/'  whimpered  Blunder. 

"  That  is  not  my  fault,  then,"  answered  Jack, 
merrily,  dancing  out  of  sight. 

Oh,  a  very  angry  little  boy  was  Blunder,  when  he 
clambered  out  of  the  hole.  "  I  don't  know  where 
it  is,"  he  said,  crying;  "  I  can't  find  it,  and  I  '11  go 
straight  home." 

Just  then  he  stepped  on  an  old,  moss-grown, 
rotten  stump ;  and  it  happening,  unluckily,  that  this 
rotten  stump  was  a  wood-goblin's  chimney,  Blunder 
fell  through,  headlong,  in  among  the  pots  and  pans 
in  which  the  goblin's  cook  was  cooking  the  goblin's 
supper.  The  old  goblin,  who  was  asleep  upstairs, 
started  up  in  a  fright  at  the  tremendous  clash  and 
clatter,  and,  finding  that  his  house  was  tumbling 
about  his  ears,  as  he  thought  at  first,  stumped  down 
to  the  kitchen  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  The  cook 
heard  him  coming,  and  looked*  about  her  in  a  fright 
to  hide  Blunder. 

"  Quick !  "  cried  she.  "  If  my  master  catches 
you,  he  will  have  you  in  a  pie.  In  the  next  room 

223 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

stands  a  pair  of  shoes.     Jump  into  them,  and  they 
will  take  you  up  the  chimney." 

Off  flew  Blunder,  burst  open  the  door,  and  tore 
frantically  about  the  room,  in  one  corner  of  which 
stood  the  shoes;  but  of  course  he  could  not  see 
them,  because  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  using  his 
eyes.  "  I  can't  find  them!  Oh,  I  can't  find  them!  " 
sobbed  poor  little  Blunder,  running  back  to  the 
cook. 

"  Run  into  the  closet/'  said  the  cook. 

Blunder  made  a  dash  at  the  window,  but  —  "I 
don't  know  where  it  is,"  he  called  out. 

Clump!  clump!  That  was  the  goblin,  halfway 
down  the  stairs. 

"  Mercy  me !  "  exclaimed  cook.  "  He  is  coming. 
The  boy  will  be  eaten  in  spite  of  me.  Jump  into 
the  meal-chest." 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  squeaked  Blunder,  rushing 
towards  the  fireplace.  "Where  is  it?" 

Clump !  clump !  That  was  the  goblin  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  and  coming  towards  the  kitchen  door. 

"  There  is  an  invisible  cloak  hanging  on  that  peg. 
Get  into  that,"  cried  cook,  quite  beside  herself. 

But  Blunder  could  no  more  see  the  cloak  than  he 
could  see  the  shoes,  the  closet,  and  the  meal-chest; 
and  no  doubt  the  goblin,  whose  hand  was  on  the 
latch,  would  have  found  him  prancing  around  the 
kitchen,  and  crying  out,  "  I  can't  find  it,"  but,  for- 
tunately for  himself,  Blunder  caught  his  foot  in  the 

224 


STORIES 

invisible  cloak,  and  tumbled  down,  pulling  the  cloak 
over  him.  There  he  lay,  hardly  daring  to  breathe. 

"What  was  all  that  noise  about?"  asked  the 
goblin  gruffly,  coming  into  the  kitchen. 

But  as  he  could  see  nothing  amiss,  he  went  grum- 
bling upstairs  again,  while  the  shoes  took  Blunder 
up  chimney,  and  landed  him  in  a  meadow,  safe 
enough,  but  so  miserable!  He  was  cross,  he  was 
disappointed,  he  was  hungry.  It  was  dark,  he  did 
not  know  the  way  home,  and,  seeing  an  old  stile,  he 
climbed  up,  and  sat  down  on  the  top  of  it,  for  he 
was  too  tired  to  stir.  Just  then  came  along  the 
South  Wind,  with  his  pockets  crammed  full  of 
showers,  and,  as  he  happened  to  be  going  Blunder's 
way,  he  took  Blunder  home.  The  boy  was  glad 
enough  of  this,  only  he  would  have  liked  it  better  if 
the  Wind  had  not  laughed  all  the  way.  For  what 
would  you  think,  if  you  were  walking  along  a  road 
with  a  fat  old  gentleman,  who  went  chuckling  to 
himself,  and  slapping  his  knees,  and  poking  him- 
self, till  he  was  purple  in  the  face,  when  he  would 
burst  out  in  a  great  windy  roar  of  laughter  every 
other  minute? 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at?  "  asked  Blunder,  at 
last. 

"  At  two  things  that  I  saw  in  my  travels/'  an- 
swered the  Wind;  "a  hen,  that  died  of  starva- 
tion, sitting  on  an  empty  peck-measure  in  front  of 
a  bushel  of  grain ;  and  a  little  boy  who  sat  on  the 

225 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

top  of  the  Wishing-Gate,  and  came  home  because 
he  could  not  find  it." 

"  What?  what 's  that?  "  cried  Blunder;  but  just 
then  he  found  himself  at  home.  There  sat  his  god- 
mother by  the  fire,  her  mouse-skin  cloak  hung  up 
on  a  peg,  and  toeing  off  a  spider's  silk  stocking  an 
eighth  of  an  inch  long;  and  though  everybody 
cried,  "  What  luck?  "  and,  "  Where  is  the  Wishing- 
Gate?  "  she  sat  mum. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  answered  Blunder. 
'*  I  could  n't  find  it ;  "  and  thereon  told  the  story 
of  his  troubles. 

"  Poor  boy !  "  said  his  mother,  kissing  him,  while 
his  sister  ran  to  bring  him  some  bread  and 
milk. 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  very  fine,"  cried  his  godmother, 
pulling  out  her  needles,  and  rolling  up  her  ball  of 
silk;  "but  now  hear  my  story.  There  was  once  a 
little  boy  who  must  needs  go  to  the  Wishing-Gate, 
and  his  godmother  showed  him  the  road  as  far  as 
the  turn,  and  told  him  to  ask  the  first  owl  he  met 
what  to  do  then ;  but  this  little  boy  seldom  used  his 
eyes,  so  he  passed  the  first  owl,  and  waked  up  the 
wrong  owl;  so  he  passed  the  water-sprite,  and 
found  only  a  frog;  so  he  sat  down  under  the  pine- 
tree,  and  never  saw  the  crow;  so  he  passed  the 
Dream-man,  and  ran  after  Jack-o'-Lantern ;  so  he 
tumbled  into  the  goblin's  chimney,  and  could  n't 
find  the  shoes  and  the  closet  and  the  chest  and  the 

226 


STORIES 

cloak;  and  so  he  sat  on  the  top  of  the  Wishing-Gate 
till  the  South  Wind  brought  him  home,  and  never 
knew  it.  Ugh !  Bah !  "  And  away  went  the  fairy 
godmother  up  the  chimney  in  such  deep  disgust  that 
she  did  not  even  stop  for  her  mouse-skin  cloak. 

—  LOUISE  E.  CHOLLET 


THE    GOLDEN    PEARS 

THERE  was  once  a  poor  peasant  of  Burs  who  had 
nothing  in  the  world  but  three  sons,  and  a  pear-tree 
that  grew  in  front  of  his  cottage.  But  the  pears 
were  very  fine,  and  the  Kaiser  was  fond  of  the  fruit, 
so  he  said  to  his  sons,  one  day,  that  he  would  send 
the  Kaiser  a  basket  as  a  present.  "  Perhaps/'  said 
he,  "  if  the  fruit  please  him  he  may  help  me  and 
mine/' 

He  plaited  a  krattle,  or  basket,  and  lined  it  with 
fresh  leaves.  Then  he  gathered  the  finest  pears 
from  the  tree,  large  ones  as  yellow  as  gold,  and  laid 
them  on  the  green  leaves. 

6  Take  these  to  the  Kaiser,"  said  he  to  his  eldest 
son,  "  and  see  that  thou  dost  not  let  anyone  rob  thee 
of  them  by  the  way." 

"  Leave  that  to  me,  father,"  said  the  boy,  "  I 
know  how  to  take  care  of  my  own.  It  is  n't  much 
anyone  will  get  out  of  me  by  asking.  I  '11  have  my 
answer,  I  can  tell  you."  So  he  closed  up  the  mouth 

227 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

of  the  basket  with  fresh  leaves  and  set  out  to  take 
the  pears  to  the  Kaiser. 

It  was  autumn  and  the  sun  struck  hot  all  through 
the  midday  hours ;  so  when  the  boy  came  at  last  to 
a  wayside  fountain  he  stopped  to  drink  and  to  rest 
in  its  coolness.  A  little  doubled-up  old  woman  was 
washing  some  rags  at  the  fountain  and  singing  a 
ditty  all  out  of  tune.  "  A  witch,  I  '11  be  bound/' 
said  the  boy  to  himself,  "  she  '11  be  trying  to  get 
my  pears,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  but  I  '11  be  up  to 
her." 

"A  fair  day,  my  lad,"  said  the  little  old  wife; 
"  that 's  a  weighty  burden  you  have  to  carry.  What 
may  it  be  with  which  you  are  so  heavily  laden?  " 

"  A  load  of  swreepings  from  the  road,  to  see 
whether  I  may  turn  a  penny  by  it,"  answered  the 
boy,  shortly,  to  stop  any  further  questioning. 

"  Road-sweepings,"  repeated  the  hag,  as  if  she 
did  not  believe  it.  "  Belike  you  don't  mean  that?  " 

"  But  I  do  mean  it,"  retorted  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  very  well.  You  will  find  out  when  you  get 
to  your  journey's  end."  And  she  went  on  washing 
and  singing  her  ditty  that  was  all  out  of  tune. 

"  She  means  something,"  said  the  boy  to  himself, 
"  that 's  clear.  But  at  all  events  my  basket  is  safe. 
I  have  n't  even  let  her  look  at  the  fruit  with  her 
evil  eye,  so  there  's  no  harm  done."  But  he  felt 
uneasy,  and  as  he  could  not  rest,  he  got  up  and  went 
on  his  way. 

228 


STORIES 

Soon  he  reached  the  palace,  and  on  telling  his 
errand  was  admitted. 

"  You  have  brought  me  some  pears,  have  you, 
my  boy?"  said  the  Kaiser,  well  pleased;  and  his 
mouth  began  to  water  for  the  luscious  fruit. 

"  Yes,  your  Majesty,  some  of  the  finest  golden 
pears  in  your  Majesty's  whole  empire,"  said  the  boy. 

The  Kaiser  was  delighted  to  hear  this  and  he 
himself  removed  the  covering  of  leaves.  But  what 
was  his  anger  to  find  under  it  nothing  but  ill-smell- 
ing sweepings  from  the  road !  The  attendants,  who 
stood  by,  were  equally  indignant  at  the  insult  offered 
to  the  emperor,  and  barely  waited  for  his  order  to 
hustle  the  boy  off  to  prison. 

"  It  is  all  due  to  that  old  hag  by  the  fountain," 
said  he  to  himself;  "  I  thought  she  meant  mischief 
to  me."  This  was  what  he  said  the  first  day  and  the 
second,  but  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  the  prison  led 
him  to  think  more  closely  and  to  remember  the 
answer  he  had  made  to  the  old  wife's  question. 

"  I  have  often  heard  my  father  say,"  he  thought, 
"  how  strong  truth  makes  the  tongue.  Alas,  that 
I  did  not  use  it  as  a  weapon  to  take  care  of  my  own." 

Meantime  the  father  said  to  his  two  sons,  "  You 
see  how  well  your  elder  brother  has  fared.  He 
kept  his  eyes  wide  awake  and  carried  the  krattle  of 
golden  fruit  in  safety  to  the  Kaiser,  who  was  no 
doubt  so  well  pleased  with  it  that  he  has  kept  the 
boy  near  his  person  and  made  him  a  rich  man." 

229 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  I  am  as  clever  as  he,"  said  the  second  brother; 
"  give  me  a  krattle  of  the  pears  and  let  me  take  them 
to  the  Kaiser,  and  become  a  rich  man  too,  only  I 
won't  keep  it  all  for  myself.  I  will  send  for  you 
to  share  it  with  me." 

"Well  said,  my  son/'  answered  the  father;  "I 
have  worked  hard  for  you  all  my  life,  and  it  is  but 
meet  that  in  my  old  age  you  should  share  your  good 
fortune  with  me."  And  as  the  season  for  pears  had 
just  come  around  again,  he  plaited  another  krattle 
and  lined  it  with  fresh  green  leaves  and  laid  in  it  a 
goodly  heap  of  the  golden  fruit. 

The  second  son  took  the  basket  and  went  his  way, 
even  in  better  spirits  than  his  elder  brother,  for  he 
had  the  supposed  success  of  the  first  to  give  wings 
to  his  feet.  The  autumn  sun  was  as  hot  through  the 
midday  as  it  had  been  the  year  before,  so  that  when 
he  had  traveled  three  days  and  arrived  at  the  way- 
side fountain,  he  too  stopped  to  drink  and  rest  in 
its  coolness.  The  doubled-up  old  woman  was  wash- 
ing her  rags  at  the  fountain  and  singing  her  ditty  all 
out  of  tune.  She  stopped  her  croaking  as  before, 
to  ask  him  the  same  question  as  she  had  asked  his 
brother. 

"  It 's  pigs'  wash,"  said  he ;  "I  am  taking  it  to 
see  whether  I  may  turn  a  penny  by  it." 

"  Pigs'  wash,"  repeated  she,  as  if  she  did  not  be- 
lieve it.  "  Belike  you  don't  mean  that?  " 

"  But  I  do  mean  it,"  retorted  he,  rudely. 
230 


STORIES 

And  at  this  she  made  the  same  remark  she  had 
made  his  brother. 

Sure  enough,  when  the  Kaiser  removed  the  leaves, 
instead  of  golden  pears  there  was  a  mess  of  pigs' 
wash.  The  attendants  hurried  the  second  boy  off  to 
the  cell  next  his  brother,  and  pitched  him  in  with 
even  less  ceremony. 

Meantime  the  year  was  passing  away  and  bring- 
ing no  tidings  to  the  father  of  the  good  fortune 
promised  him  by  his  son.  "  The  ingratitude  of 
children  is  like  a  sharp  sting/'  said  he,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  grief  and  disappointment.  He  would 
often  say  to  his  third  son,  who  was  considered  too 
stupid  to  be  good  for  much,  "  What  a  pity  it  is  that 
you  are  so  dull-headed!  If  I  only  dared  trust  you 
I  might  send  you  to  see  what  has  befallen  your 
brothers." 

The  lad  was  used  to  hear  himself  called  a  good- 
for-nothing,  so  he  did  not  think  for  a  long  time  that 
he  might  even  attempt  the  task.  But  as  the  days 
went  by  and  his  father's  distress  grew  more  sore,  his 
loving  heart  was  moved,  and  one  day  he  summoned 
courage  to  ask  whether  he  might  not  try  to  find  his 
brothers. 

"  Do  you  really  think  you  can  keep  yourself  out 
of  harm's  way?  "  exclaimed  the  father,  glad  to  find 
the  boy  anxious  to  undertake  the  venture. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me,"  said  the  lad, 
eagerly. 

231 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

"  Well,  you  sha'n't  go  empty-handed,  at  all 
events,"  said  the  father.  And  as  the  pears  were  just 
ripe  again  he  laid  the  choicest  of  the  year's  stock 
in  a  krattle  and  sent  him  on  his  way. 

The  boy  walked  along,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  but  with  his  heart  beating,  lest  he  should 
come  across  the  "  Harm  "  out  of  whose  way  he  had 
promised  to  keep  himself.  All  went  well,  however, 
except  that  the  sun  shone  down  on  him  fiercely,  so 
that  when  he  too  reached  the  wayside  fountain  he 
was  glad  to  stop  to  drink  and  rest  in  the 
coolness. 

The  old  wife  was  washing  her  rags  in  the  water, 
and  as  she  patted  the  linen,  singing  a  ditty  all  out 
of  tune.  "  Here  comes  a  third  of  those  surly  dogs, 
I  declare,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  saw  him  arrive 
with  another  load  of  the  magnificent  pears.  "  I 
suppose  he  '11  try  to  make  game  of  me  too  as  if  I 
did  n't  know  the  sweet  smell  of  ripe  golden  pears 
from  road-sweepings  or  pigs'  wash!  a  likely  thing! 
But  I  'm  ready  for  him." 

"  Good  morning,  little  mother!  "  sakl  the  boy  in 
his  direct  way,  doffing  his  cap  as  he  had  been  taught, 
although  she  was  old  and  ugly. 

"  He  's  sweeter  behaved  than  the  other  louts,  for 
all  he  does  n't  look  so  bright-faced,"  said  the  hag  to 
herself;  and  she  stopped  her  song  out  of  tune  to 
return  his  greeting. 

"  May  I  sit  down  here  a  bit,  please,  good 
232 


STORIES 

mother  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  for  he  was  so  simple  that 
he  thought  the  fountain  must  belong  to  her. 

"  That  you  may,  and  take  a  draught  of  the  cool 
water,  too/'  she  answered,  wondrously  softened  by 
his  civil  manners. 

"  And  what  may  it  be  with  which  you  are  so  laden, 
my  pretty  boy?  "  she  asked.  "  It  should  be  a  pre- 
cious burden  to  be  worth  carrying  so  far  as  you 
appear  to  have  come.  What  have  you  in  your 
krattle?" 

"  Precious  indeed  they  are,  I  believe  you/'  said 
the  boy,  "  at  least  so  you  would  think  from  the  store 
my  father  sets  by  them.  They  are  truly  golden 
pears,  and  he  says  there  are  no  finer  grown  in  the 
whole  kingdom.  I  am  taking  them  to  the  Kaiser, 
who  is  fond  of  the  fruit." 

"  Only  ripe  pears  and  yet  so  heavy/'  returned  the 
old  wife;  "one  would  say  it  is  something  heavier 
than  pears.  But  you  '11  see  when  you  come  to  your 
journey's  end." 

The  boy  assured  her  they  were  nothing  but  pears ; 
and  as  one  of  his  father's  commands  had  been  not 
to  lose  time  by  the  way,  he  bade  the  old  dame  a  cour- 
teous farewell  and  continued  on  his  way. 

When  the  servants  saw  another  peasant  boy  from 
Burs  come  to  the  palace  with  the  story  that  he  had 
pears  for  the  king,  they  said,  "  No,  no !  we  Ve  had 
enough  of  that!  You  may  turn  around  and  go 
back."  But  the  poor  boy  was  so  disappointed  that 

233 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

he  could  not  carry  out  his  task  that  he  sank  down 
on  the  step  and  sobbed  bitterly,  and  there  he  re- 
mained sobbing  till  the  Kaiser  came  out. 

The  Kaiser's  little  daughter  was  with  her  father. 
When  she  saw  the  boy  sobbing,  she  asked  what  ailed 
him,  and  learned  it  was  another  boy  from  Burs  come 
to  insult  the  Kaiser  with  a  basket  of  refuse.  And  the 
servants  asked  her  whether  they  should  not  take  the 
boy  off  to  prison  straightway.  The  Kaiser  left  the 
question  to  his  daughter. 

"  But  I  have  pears,"  sobbed  the  boy;  "and  my 
father  says  there  are  no  finer  in  the  empire." 

'''  Yes,  yes,"  jeered  the  servants,  "  we  know  that 
by  heart;  "  and  they  attempted  to  drag  him  away. 

"  But  won't  you  look  at  my  pears  first,  fair  prin- 
cess? The  pears  that  I  have  brought  all  this  way 
for  the  Kaiser?  My  father  will  be  so  sorry." 

The  princess  was  struck  with  the  earnestness  with 
which  he  spoke,  and  decided  to  see  the  basket  herself. 
The  moment  she  said  so  the  boy  walked  straight  up 
to  her  with  his  krattle,  so  strong  in  the  truth  that  he 
felt  no  fear  of  the  whole  troop  of  lackeys. 

The  princess  removed  the  leaves  and  —  there  in- 
deed were  golden  pears,  not  merely  yellow  with  ripe- 
ness, but  really  gold,  each,  large  as  it  was,  a  shining 
pear  of  solid  gold ! 

"  These  are  pears  fit  for  a  king,"  she  said,  and 
presented  them  to  her  father.  The  Kaiser  was 
greatly  pleased.  He  ordered  the  gold  fruit  to  be 

234 


STORIES 

placed  in  his  cabinet  of  treasures,  and  to  the  boy, 
as  a  reward,  he  promised  whatever  he  should  ask. 

"  All  I  wish  is  to  find  my  two  brothers,  who  hold 
some  high  office  in  your  Majesty's  court,"  said  the 
boy. 

"  If  those  who  came  with  pears  before  are  your 
brothers,  as  I  suspect,  they  hold  office  in  prison/' 
said  the  Kaiser,  and  commanded  that  they  be 
brought.  As  soon  as  the  two  were  led  in,  the  third 
ran  to  them  and  embraced  them.  Then  the  Kaiser 
bade  each  tell  his  story. 

"  Strong  indeed  does  truth  make  the  tongue  to 
keep  its  own/'  said  the  Kaiser,  using  almost  the  same 
words  the  boys  had  often  heard  their  father  speak. 
And  they  were  truly  sorry  they  had  not  kept  his 
counsel. 

The  Kaiser  sent  for  the  father  and  gave  him  and 
his  sons  charge  of  the  king's  gardens.  The  father 
brought  with  him  the  pear-tree  that,  by  the  power 
of  the  truth  told  of  it,  had  made  golden  fortune  for 
them.  And  he  and  his  sons  had  plenty  ever  after 
and  were  well  content.  —  FOLK  TALE 


235 


SOME   VERY    SHORT    STORIES 


jFor  all  Utcle  clitlaren  totio  fain  tooulD  tell 
in  tljeir  tenber  Ijrarts?  ootlj 


SOME    VERY    SHORT    STORIES 

THE    PUPPY'S    BARK 

OUR  puppy  is  so  little  that  he  can  hardly  stand  up. 
But  he  wants  the  kitten  to  think  him  a  big  dog.  So 
the  other  day  he  steadied  himself  on  his  legs  and 
tried  to  give  a  loud  bark.  "  Bow  wow,"  he  said. 
And  down  he  tumbled. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  THE  WHITE  KITTEN 

ONCE  when  a  white  kitten  spied  the  tip  of  her  tail, 
she  tried  to  catch  it.  Round  and  round  she  went  so 
fast  that  she  turned  into  a  white  ball.  But,  of  course, 
the  tail  went  as  fast  as  she  did,  so  she  could  n't  catch 
up  with  it.  Soon  she  grew  so  dizzy  that  she  had 
to  stop.  There  she  was  back  again,  a  sensible  white 
kitten. 

A   CONCEITED   GRASSHOPPER 

THE  other  day  a  very  young  grasshopper  and  an  old 
'  rooster  were  out  in  the  field  together. 

"  I  can  jump  higher  than  anyone  in  this  field," 
cried  the  grasshopper.  The  rooster  said  nothing, 
but  opened  his  mouth  as  if  he  meant  to  yawn. 

"  Here   I   go/'   cried   the  grasshopper,   and   she 

239 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

jumped  so  high  that  she  landed  in  the  rooster's 
mouth.  The  rooster  gobbled  her  up. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  her  and  her  boasting. 

THE    MOUSE'S    ESCAPE 

A  LITTLE  gray  mouse  lived  in  a  hole  in  our  kitchen 
closet.  One  day  she  smelled  some  cheese.  "  M-m," 
she  said,  "  how  delicious !  "  She  peeped  out  to  see 
whether  Tom,  our  cat,  was  in  the  kitchen.  He 
was  n't.  Out  she  stole,  sniffed  about,  and  found  the 
cheese.  Just  as  she  began  to  nibble  it,  along  came 
Tom.  The  little  mouse  darted  back  into  her  safe 
hole. 

WHAT  THE  WHITE   HEN  DID  FOR  THE 
WORLD 

ONE  morning  the  white  hen  went  into  the  barn. 
The  rooster  saw  her  go,  but  he  did  n't  stop  her. 
After  a  few  minutes  out  she  came,  clucking  to  the 
whole  world,  "  Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut !  Cut-cut- 
cut-cut-cadah-cut !  "  And  the  whole  world  as  well 
as  the  rooster  knew  she  had  laid  an  egg. 

THE    GOLDEN    GOOSE 

ONCE  a  man  owned  a  wonderful  goose.  Every 
morning  when  he  said,  "  Lay/'  it  laid  a  golden  egg. 
By  and  by  the  man  grew  so  greedy  that  he  wanted 
all  the  golden  eggs  at  once.  So  he  cut  open  the 

240 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

goose.  There  was  n't  one  egg  in  it.  And,  of  course, 
the  goose  could  n't  lay  any  more  eggs  now.  The 
foolish  man  had  killed  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden 
eggs.  —  ./Esop 

THE    MOON   AND    HER    MOTHER 

(This  story  may  be  accompanied  by  blackboard 
sketches  of  the  phases  of  the  moon.) 

ONE  day  the  moon  asked  her  mother  for  a  cloak 
that  would  fit  her  well. 

"  How  can  I  make  a  cloak  that  will  fit  you?  "  an- 
swered the  mother.  "  You  are  always  changing  your 
size.  One  day  you  are  a  new  moon.  Another 
day  you  are  a  full  moon.  And  another  day  you 
are  neither." 

So  the  little  moon  has  to  go  without  a  cloak. 

—  OLD  FABLE 

MOTHER    CAREY'S    CHICKENS 

ONE  day  in  winter  the  snowflakes  came  down  as  soft 
and  light  and  white  as  feathers.  The  little  children 
looking  out  at  the  window  sang, 

"  Old  Mother  Carey's  chickens, 
Old  Mother  Carey's  chickens; 
They  are  up  in  the  sky, 

Ever  so  high ; 

Old  Mother  Carey's  chickens."  / 

241 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Down  fell  the  snowflakes,  thick  and  fast,  and  more 
and  more  and  more,  till  they  made  a  snowstorm. 

When  they  were  all  down  the  children  brought 
out  their  sleds,  and  away  they  went  coasting  on 
Mother  Carey's  chickens'  feathers. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  WEE,  WEE  BONE 

ONCE  a  wee,  wee  girl  came  across  a  wee,  wee  dog 
scratching  a  wee,  wee  hole  to  bury  a  wee,  wee  bone. 
When  the  wee,  wee  dog  had  buried  the  wee,  wee 
bone,  he  trotted  off  on  his  wee,  wee  legs.  And  when 
he  had  gone  a  wee,  wee  way,  the  wee,  wee  girl  dug 
her  wee,  wee  fingers  into  the  wee,  wee  hole,  and  took 
away  the  wee,  wee  bone. 

But  the  wee,  wee  dog  smelled  her  out  with  his 
wee,  wee  nose  and  said,  "  Give  me  back  my  wee, 
wee  bone;  you  can't  eat  it  and  I  can."  The  wee, 
wee  girl  would  n't. 

Then  the  wee,  wee  dog  sat  up  on  his  wee,  wee 
hind  legs  and  cried  a  wee,  wee  tear.  This  made  the 
wee,  wee  girl  sorry.  So  she  gave  the  wee,  wee  dog 
his  wee,  wee  bone. 

The  wee,  wee  dog  dried  the  wee,  wee  tear  with 
his  wee,  wee  paw,  and  ate  up  the  wee,  wee  bone. 

And  that 's  the  end  of  this  wee,  wee  story. 


242 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

t 

THE   MISSING   LAMB 

ONE  evening  a  shepherd  was  turning  away  from  the 
fold  when  one  of  the  sheep  bleated  mournfully. 

"  Is  thy  lamb  missing,  poor  mother  ?  "  asked  the 
shepherd. 

Just  then  he  heard  a  loud  bark,  and  there  half  a 
field  away  was  Carlo,  his  dog,  guiding  home  a  fright- 
ened lamb.  The  little  creature  had  strayed  away 
from  her  mother  to  find  the  very  sweetest  bits  of 
sheep  sorrel. 

"  Bow  wow,  master,"  called  Carlo,  "  don't  close 
up  yet/' 

"  Ba-a-a,  ba-a-a-a,"  cried  the  little  lamb,  "  dear 
mother,  where  are  you  ?  " 

The  mother  heard  her  and  bounded  into  the  air 
with  joy.  "  Ba-a-a,  come  to  me,  my  lamb/'  she 
called,  "  come  to  me,  my  lambkin,  my  wee  lambkin, 
my  wee  wee  little  lamb." 

The  little  lamb  leaped  to  her  mother's  side  and  was 
safe  in  the  fold. 

The  shepherd  patted  Carlo  on  the  head  and  called 
him  "  Good  dog  "  and  said,  "  Come  with  me,  my 
dog,  and  I  '11  give  thee  a  bone  thick  with  meat." 

THE   ANT   AND   THE   DOVE 

ONCE  an  ant  went  to  the  bank  of  a  river  to  quench 
her  thirst.  As  she  stooped  to  the  water  she  fell  in 

243 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

and  was  nearly  drowned.  A  dove  perched  on  a  tree 
overhanging  the  river  saw  her  and  quickly  dropped 
down  a  leaf  to  her.  The  ant  climbed  up  on  the  leaf 
and  it  floated  to  the  bank.  She  went  ashore,  safe  and 
sound. 

Not  long  after  this,  a  bird  catcher  stepped  softly 
up  to  the  tree  to  set  a  snare  to  catch  the  dove.  The 
ant  saw  him  and  quickly  stung  him  in  the  foot.  The 
bird  catcher's  cry  at  the  pain  startled  the  dove. 
Away  she  flew,  safe  and  sound. 


THE    BOY   AND   THE    NUTS 

A  BOY  put  his  hand  into  a  jar  to  take  some  nuts.  He 
grasped  so  many  that  there  was  no  room  for  his 
hand  to  come  out.  In  a  great  fright  he  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Be  satisfied  with  half  as  many,"  said  a  man  who 
was  watching  him,  "  and  your  hand  will  come  out 
easily." 

The  greedy  boy  dropped  half,  and  at  once  out 
came  his  hand. 


DID    SHE    CATCH    HIM? 

ONE  day  a  little  girl  said  to  her  wisest  aunt,  "  I  wish 
I  could  catch  that  sparrow." 

"  The  next  time  he  comes,"  said  her  wisest  aunt, 
244 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  shake  some  salt  on  his  tail.  But  be  sure  not  to  let 
him  see  nor  hear  you/' 

The  little  girl  went  into  the  house  and  brought  out 
some  salt.  Pretty  soon  the  sparrow  alighted  near 
her.  She  tiptoed  up  behind  him  with  the  salt  ready 
in  her  hand.  Nearer  and  nearer  she  stole. 

Just  as  she  stooped  to  shake  the  salt  on  his  tail, 
the  sparrow  cocked  his  head  at  her  and  flew  away. 

THE    BEARS    AT    PLAY 

A  SMALL  brown  bear  and  a  small  black  bear  walked 
up  to  each  other  and  rubbed  noses. 

"Will  you  play  with  me  if  I  play  with  you?" 
whispered  the  brown  one  to  the  other.  And  the 
other  whispered,  "  I  will." 

The  two  trotted  out  to  the  center  of  the  cage. 
The  brown  one  turned  a  somersault  and  the  black 
one  turned  a  bigger  somersault.  After  this  they 
both  turned  somersaults  together. 

When  the  play  was  over,  they  rubbed  noses  again 
and  each  went  back  to  his  own  cave  in  the  rocks. 

HOW  THE   GROCER   PLAYED   A  TRICK 
ON  KIT 

KIT  was  the  grocer's  horse.  One  day  as  the  grocer 
came  up  to  her  she  whinnied  and  rubbed  her  nose 
against  his  pocket. 

245 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  Ve  caught  you  this  time ;  it  is  n't 
in  my  pocket/'  said  the  grocer;  "here  it  is."  He 
held  out  to  her  a  ripe  red  apple  he  had  been  hiding 
behind  his  back. 

Kit  did  n't  wait  to  laugh  at  the  joke;  she  ate  the 
apple  in  one  big  bite. 


THE  SHORT  TALE  OF  THE  RABBITS  WHO 
WENT  OUT  TO  SEE  THE  WORLD 

Two  white  rabbits  lived  in  a  hutch  in  our  back  yard. 
One  sunny  morning  said  One  to  the  Other,  "  Let  us 
go  out  to  see  the  world." 

So  they  did.  They  went  up  the  alley  way  to  the 
front  garden.  Here  the  grass  was  growing  fresh 
and  green. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Other  to  One,  "  the  world  was 
made  for  us.  It  is  nothing  but  a  big  cabbage  leaf. 
Taste  it." 

Just  as  they  put  their  noses  down  to  nibble  a  bit 
of  it,  a  dog  poked  his  nose  through  the  railing  and 
said,  "  Bow  wow." 

"  Oh  my,  the  world  belongs  to  him,"  they  cried ; 
"  he  may  have  it." 

And  back  they  scurried  to  their  safe  hutch. 

There  they  stayed,  eating  cabbage  leaves  and 
letting  the  world  alone. 


246 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

THE  DISPUTE  BETWEEN  THE  POT  AND 
THE  KETTLE 

THE  pot  said  the  kettle  was  black.  And  the  kettle 
said  the  pot  was  black.  And  the  pot  said  the  kettle 
was  black.  And  the  kettle  said  the  pot  was  black. 
And  they  kept  it  up. 

In  the  middle  of  the  dispute  in  came  two  servants. 
One  seized  the  pot  and  the  other  seized  the  kettle, 
and  they  scrubbed  them  both  within  an  inch  of  their 
lives.  So  I  suppose  the  servants  thought  both  were 
black.  What  do  you  think? 


HOW  THE  TURTLE  GOT   HIS   DINNER 

IT  was  the  small  black  turtle's  dinner  time.  He 
drew  in  his  head  and  watched.  A  bluebottle  buzzed 
by,  singing.  Snap !  out  came  the  turtle's  head.  The 
bluebottle's  song  was  over,  the  turtle  was  eating  him 
for  dinner. 

"  A  bluebottle  is  a  delicious  morsel/'  said  the 
turtle  aloud  to  anyone  who  might  happen  to  be 
passing. 

He  dined  that  day  on  foolish  bluebottles  who 
did  n't  know  he  had  a  head. 


247 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 


THE  CATERPILLAR  CAUGHT  IN  THE  RAIN 

THE  other  day  a  caterpillar  was  out  walking  on  a 
leaf,  when  it  began  to  rain.  He  had  no  umbrella, 
but  that  did  not  bother  him.  He  crawled  under  the 
leaf,  and  waited  for  the  shower  to  be  over. 

When  the  raindrops  stopped  pattering  over  his 
head,  he  stuck  out  his  head  to  see  whether  the  sky 
had  cleared.  It  had.  A  beautiful  rainbow  was  just 
fading  out  of  the  sky. 

Up  the  caterpillar  climbed,  dry  and  comfortable, 
and  went  on-  with  his  walk. 


THE    SONG   THE    COCKLE-SHELL    SINGS 

ONE  day  Anna  Lucy  held  a  cockle-shell  to  her  ear. 
She  listened  and  then  began  to  smile. 

"  Do  you  hear  anything?  "  asked  her  little  brother 
Frank. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anna  Lucy,  "  you  may  hear  it 
too."  She  held  the  shell  to  Frank's  ear.  Frank 
listened,  then  he  began  to  smile.  "What  is  it?" 
he  whispered. 

"  It  is  the  song  of  the  sea,"  said  Anna  Lucy ;  "  the 
shell  sings  it  in  her  heart." 


248 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 


THE   WATER-SNAIL'S    RIDE 

A  LITTLE  water-snail  with  his  house  on  his  back 
floated  on  the  top  of  the  water.  Suddenly  he  must 
have  thought  of  something  downstairs  that  he 
needed,  for  he  drew  himself  into  his  house.  Down 
it  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  water.  The  water- 
snail  stuck  out  his  horns  and  head,  and  ate  up  a  tiny 
bit  of  seaweed.  So  I  suppose  that  is  what  he  needed. 
In  he  drew  himself  again,  and  up  went  his  house 
just  as  if  it  were  an  elevator. 

"  You  must  find  that  house  very  convenient,"  said 
I  to  him.  But  he  said  nothing  to  me ;  he  only  floated 
on  the  top  of  the  water. 


IT   TAKES   TIME   TO    GROW 

A  TOADSTOOL  sprang  up  in  a  night.  But  it  fell  to 
earth  next  day  when  the  first  passer-by  touched  it. 
An  acorn  took  a  hundred  years  to  grow  into  an  oak. 
But  the  oak  is  still  standing,  strong  and  tall. 


THE    FRIGHT   THEY    HAD 

ONE  day  as  a  snail  with  his  house  on  his  back 
crawled  up  a  vine  he  met  a  ladybug.  The  two 
stopped  to  chat  about  their  children.  All  of  a  sud- 
den a  little  girl,  who  was  passing,  cried  out, 

249 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

"  Ladybug,  Ladybug,  fly  away  home, 
Your  house  is  on  fire, 
Your  children  all  burned/' 

Home  flew  Ladybug,  pale  with  fright. 

"How  thankful  I  am/'  said  the  snail,  "  that  I 
carry  my  house  on  my  back!"  But  on  second 
thought  he  too  turned  pale  with  fright.  "  Perhaps 
my  darling  children  will  crawl  near  poor  Ladybug's 
house  to  see  the  fire,  and  be  burned  to  death."  He 
turned  about  and  crawled  home  as  fast  as  his  snail's 
pace  would  let  him,  and  that  was  n't  very  fast. 

But  it  was  all  a  joke ;  it  happened  on  April  Fool's 
Day.  The  snail's  children  were  quite  safe  and  so 
were  Ladybug's. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  Mr.  Snail,  you  're  an  April  Fool," 
cried  the  little  girl,  skipping  past  again. 

But  I  don't  know  whether  they  understood  her. 
What  do  you  think? 


HIMSELF 

"  WHO  are  you?  "  said  Tom,  to  a  small  black  shadow 
beside  him. 

"  Why,  I  'm  you,"  said  the  shadow;  "  don't  you 
know  me?  " 

"What,  a  little  fellow  like  you!"  cried  Tom; 
"you're  very  much  mistaken."  And  away  he 
strode. 

250 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  No,  a  big  fellow  like  you,"  said  the  shadow,  as 
he  shot  out  in  front  of  Tom. 


WHY  THE   CANARY   SANG   IN   HIS   CAGE 

A  CANARY  swung  in  his  golden  cage  and  sang  joy- 
ously. The  window  was  open,  so  a  lark  heard  him 
as  she  rose  into  the  air.  She  alighted  on  the  window 
sill  in  wonder. 

"  How  can  you  sing  shut  up  in  a  cage!  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Come  out  into  the  free  air  and  up  into 
the  sky  with  me." 

The  canary  stopped  his  song  to  listen  to  the  lark. 
"Why  do  you  stop  singing,  little  canary?"  asked 
a  sick  boy,  in  a  feeble  voice.  He  was  in  a  bed  near 
the  canary's  cage.  The  lark  could  not  see  him,  but 
she  heard  him.  "  Your  song/'  said  the  boy, 
"  makes  me  forget  my  pain." 

The  canary  burst  into  a  sweeter  song.  "  Now  I 
know,"  said  the  lark,  "  he  sings  because  it  makes 
the  sick  boy  happy."  And  she  flew  upward,  wiser 
than  before. 


WHO   THE   BIRD   WAS 

ONE  hot  day  in  July  a  bird  perched  at  the  very  top 
of  a  tall  hemlock.  The  blazing  sun  shone  on  his 
scarlet  body  and  made  it  glow  like  fire. 

"  What  a  foolish  bird  to  be  out  in  the  scorching 

251 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

sun,"  cried  Mother  Robin  to  her  husband.  "  He  '11 
be  sunstruck."  She  and  Father  Robin  stood  shading 
their  eyes  under  the  cool  maple  leaves  to  look  up  at 
him.  "Who  can  he  be  ?" 

"  I  think,  my  dear/'  said  Father  Robin,  "  that  I 
had  better  go  up  and  tell  him  to  come  down." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Mother  Robin,  "  what  would  the  bird- 
lings  and  I  do  if  anything  should  happen  to  you!  " 
and  she  caught  him  by  the  tail  just  as  he  was  flying 
off. 

As  Father  Robin  opened  his  mouth  to  answer,  the 
scarlet  bird  spread  shining  black  wings  and  flew 
into  the  sunshine,  singing, 

"  I  love  the  sun,  the  light,  the  flame, 
Scarlet  tanager  is  my  name." 

"  Never  fear  for  him,"  said  Mother  Robin,  "  the 
sun  and  he  are  good  friends." 


HOW  THE  OLD  TROUT   SERVED  TOM 

ONCE  a  \vater-baby  named  Tom  swam  close  to  some 
little  trout.  He  began  tormenting  them  and  trying 
to  catch  them.  They  slipped  through  his  fingers  and 
jumped  clean  out  of  the  water  in  their  fright. 

As  Tom  chased  them  he  swam  near  a  dark  pool 
under  an  alder  root.  Out  floushed  a  huge  old  brown 
trout  ten  times  as  big  as  he.  She  ran  straight  at 

252 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

Tom  and  knocked  nearly  all  the  breath  out  of  his 
body. 

So  it  was  Tom's  turn  to  be  frightened.  After 
that  you  may  be  sure  he  let  the  little  trout  alone. 

-  From  KINGSLEY 

A   CLEVER   COW 

A  QUICK-WITTED  old  cow  learned  how  to  shake 
apples  down  from  the  trees.  While  rubbing  herself 
against  the  tree  she  noticed  that  an  apple  sometimes 
fell.  She  rubbed  a  little  harder,  and  more  apples 
fell.  Soon  the  farmer  had  to  keep  an  eye  on  her 
to  save  his  apples.  —  From  BURROUGHS 

THE    SNOWMAN 

WHEN  the  sun  got  up  one  morning  in  winter  he 
found  a  snowman  staring  at  him  rudely. 

"  Don't  stare  at  me.  If  you  do  you  '11  melt/'  said 
the  sun. 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  snowman.  "  A  cat  may 
look  at  a  king.  I  '11  look  at  you  if  I  like."  And  he 
stared  harder  than  ever. 

Pretty  soon  he  felt  the  top  of  his  head  softening. 
"  I  feel  very  queer,"  said  he  to  himself.  But  he 
did  n't  stop  staring.  "  Ugh !  "  he  shivered,  "  water 
is  running  down  my  back.  My  nose  is  going.  My 
toes  are  going.  I  'm  going." 

And  he  went. 

253 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

THE    RACE 

THE  kitten  lay  curled  up  in  a  ball  fast  asleep.  The 
pup  was  broad  awake. 

He  stole  up  to  kitty,  lifted  his  paw,  and  gave 
her  a  tap  on  the  nose.  Then  he  scampered  off. 
Up  started  kitty,  and  round  and  round  the  kitchen 
went  the  pup  with  kitty  after  him. 

It  made  the  kitchen  clock  so  dizzy  to  watch  them 
that  she  put  up  her  long  hand  to  steady  her  head. 
—  "  One,"  rang  the  bell  inside  of  her. 

'  Time  's  up,"  cried  the  pup.  And  he  and  kitty 
sat  down  on  the  mat  side  by  side  and  the  pup  put 

out  his  tongue  and  laughed  at  the  fun. 

~) 

BRAVE    DAN 

EVERYBODY  was  out.  So  of  course  Dan,  the  pup, 
was  master  of  the  house.  He  trotted  proudly 
through  the  halls  and  poked  his  nose  into  every 
room,  for  burglars. 

In  his  master's  room  he  heard  something  say, 
"  Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick/'  Dan  pricked  up  his  ears. 
Somebody  was  in  the  house.  Who  could  it  be?  A 
glove  lay  on  the  floor  near  the  mantel.  Dan  wralked 
over  and  began  to  sniff  at  it. 

"  One/'  struck  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Dan  scampered  off  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry 
him. 

254 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

THE   WIND'S    FROLIC 

"  DOWN  you  go/'  cried  the  wind  to  the  leaves  one 
morning  in  autumn.  And  down  he  blew  them  in 
crowds  from  the  trees,  brown  ones,  red  ones,  and 
yellow  ones.  Then  he  drove  them  scurrying  before 
him  up  the  street.  At  last  he  swirled  them  together 
in  heaps,  and  left  off  to  rest. 

So  there  we  too  shall  let  them  lie. 


THE    DEAD    CANARY 

THE  little  yellow  canary  that  used  to  sing  so  sweetly 
grew  sick  and  died.  The  children  wept  to  see  it. 

"  Let  us  bury  him  under  the  apple-tree,"  said 
Alice;  "every  spring  it  will  cover  his  grave  with 
white  blossoms/' 

So  Robert  dug  a  small  grave  under  the  apple- 
tree,  and  Alice  laid  the  canary  gently  in  it.  They 
covered  him  with  the  soft  earth. 

Every  spring  the  apple-tree  sent  down  his  white 
blossoms  on  the  grave. 

THE    SWAN'S    MEAL 

ONE  morning  as  a  shining  white  swan  sailed  about 
on  the  lake  he  saw  a  boy  on  the  bank,  eating  some 
bread.  He  swam  over  to  the  boy  and  thrust  out  his 
long  white  neck  toward  the  bread. 

255 


STORIES  AND   STORY-TELLING 

"  The  beautiful  swan  wants  my  bread,"  cried  the 
boy.  He  was  delighted. 

He  broke  it  and  threw  it  bit  by  bit  on  a  lily  pad. 
The  swan  ate  it,  to  the  last  crumb.  Then  he  bent 
his  head  as  if  to  thank  the  boy,  and  sailed  away. 


THE    BOY   AND    THE    FROGS 

SOME  boys  at  play  near  a  pond  began  to  pelt  the 
frogs  with  stones,  just  for  the  fun  of  seeing  them 
go  under  water.  They  killed  several  of  them. 

At  last  one  of  the  frogs  lifted  his  head  high  out 
of  the  water,  and  cried  out,  "  Pray  stop,  boys; 
what  is  fun  for  you  is  death  to  us." 

"That  is  true/'  said  one  of  the  boys;  "let  us 
leave  the  poor  creatures  in  peace/'  And  they  did. 

—  From  /Esop 


SWEET    PORRIDGE 

THERE  was  a  poor  but  good  little  girl  who  lived 
alone  with  her  mother.  One  day  they  no  longer  had 
anything  to  eat.  The  child  went  out  into  the  forest, 
and  there  an  old  woman  gave  her  a  wonderful  little 
pot.  When  you  said  to  it,  "  Cook,  little  pot,  cook/' 
it  would  cook  good  sweet  porridge.  And  when  you 
said,  "  Stop,  little  pot,  stop/'  it  would  stop  cooking. 
The  girl  took  the  pot  home  to  her  mother,  and  they 

256 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

were   no   longer   hungry,   but   ate   sweet   porridge 
whenever  they  chose. 

Once  when  the  girl  had  gone  out  her  mother  said, 
"  Cook,  little  pot,  cook."  The  mother  ate  till  she 
was  satisfied.  But  when  she  wanted  the  pot  to  stop 
she  found  she  did  not  know  the  word.  So  it  went 
on  cooking  and  the  porridge  rose  over  the  edge. 
STILL  it  cooked  on  until  the  kitchen  and  the  whole 
house  were  full,  and  then  the  next  house,  and  then 
the  whole  street,  as  if  it  meant  to  feed  the  whole 
world.  No  one  could  stop  it. 

At  last  when  only  one  house  remained  the  child 
came  home  from  the  opposite  direction  and  just 
said,  "  Stop,  little  pot,  stop,"  and  it  stopped. 

But  whoever  wished  to  come  back  to  the  town  that 
night  had  to  eat  his  way  back. 

—  FOLK  STORY 


FINDING   A   HOME 

EARLY  in  spring  a  couple  of  bluebirds  set  out  to  look 
for  a  home. 

''  What  do  you  think  of  this  vacant  dove-cote 
for  our  nest,  sweet  wife?"  asked  he.  "The 
view  from  the  top  of  the  gable  is  beautiful." 

"  I  am  afraid  of  all  these  windows,"  said  she, 
peeping  in  at  each.  "  The  wind  might  prove  too 
strong  for  our  little  ones  when  they  come." 

257 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  Parents  must  think  of  that,"  said  he.  And  on 
they  flew. 

Under  the  eaves  of  a  barn  they  found  an  empty 
swallow's  nest.  "  The  very  thing  for  us,"  they 
both  cried,  and  alighted  to  look  at  it.  At  this  minute 
who  should  arrive  from  the  south  but  the  swallow 
who  owned  it?  He  saw  at  once  what  they  were  at 
and  flew  straight  into  it,  crying, 

"  Kwi-kwi-kwivet, 
My  house  is  not  to  let." 

"  How  delightful  to  own  a  home  of  your  own," 
said  the  she-bluebird. 

"  Is  n't  it?  "  agreed  the  he-bluebird. 

"  Is  that  a  wren's  house  over  there?  "  asked  she, 
flying  over.  But  when  she  attempted  to  poke  her 
nose  inside,  out  rushed  two  little  wrens  at  her  and 
scolded  her  away. 

"  My  love,"  said  he,  "  how  you  are  trembling. 
Let  us  build  a  house  of  our  own." 

And  that 's  what  they  did.  In  a  stump  in  an 
open  field  they  found  exactly  the  hole  they  wanted 
and  there  they  made  their  nest. 

It  was  n't  long  before  their  little  ones  came  and 
found  it  the  snuggest  in  the  world. 


258 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

DID    JIP    DINE    ON    CHICKEN? 

ONE  day  a  dog  named  Jip  went  for  a  walk.  He 
came  to  a  yard  where  there  was  a  hen  with  her  brood 
of  chicks.  Said  Jip  to  himself,  "  A  downy  little 
yellow  chick  would  make  a  sweet  dinner  for  a  dog. 
I  think  I  '11  have  it."  He  turned  in  at  the  gate. 
But  Mother  Hen  had  something  to  say  about  it. 
"  Cluck,  cluck,"  she  cried  to  her  chicks,  and  spread 
out  her  wings  to  hide  them.  Then  she  lowered  her 
head,  stuck  out  her  sharp  beak,  and  made  straight 
for  Jip.  He  turned  tail  and  fled  home  as  fast  as 
his  legs  would  carry  him. 


THE    DOG   IN   THE    MANGER 

ONCE  when  some  oxen  went  to  their  manger  to  eat 
hay  they  found  a  small  dog  in  it.  The  dog  growled 
and  snapped  at  the  oxen  and  would  not  let  them 
come  near  the  hay.  The  stableman  saw  it  all. 
"  Get  out  of  there,  you  selfish  cur!  "  he  cried  to  the 
dog.  '  You  cannot  eat  the  hay  yourself  and  you 
will  not  let  those  who  can."  He  seized  a  whip  and 
the  dog  was  glad  to  run  yelping  away. 

—  From 


259 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

THE    TWO    APPLES 

A  REAL  apple  and  a  clay  apple  lay  side  by  side.  The 
real  apple  was  jealous  of  the  clay  apple.  A  little 
girl  had  smoothed  and  pressed  and  patted  the  cheek 
of  the  clay  apple,  but  she  had  only  looked  at  him. 
Soon  along  came  the  little  girl  with  her  hat  and 
coat  on.  She  picked  up  the  real  apple.  "  Come, 
ripe  red  apple/'  said  she;  "we'll  go  visiting.  I 
know  a  little  lame  boy  who  will  like  a  bite  of  you. 
My  clay  apple  would  never  do  for  that/' 

As  she  looked  at  him,  the  real  apple  felt  himself 
turning  a  deeper  red,  he  was  so  ashamed  that  he 
had  been  jealous. 

THE    DOG   AND   THE    SHADOW 

A  DOG  was  crossing  a  stream  of  water,  with  a  piece 
of  meat  in  his  mouth.  As  he  looked  down,  he 
thought  he  saw  another  dog  with  a  larger  piece  of 
meat.  Said  the  greedy  fellow  to  himself,  "  I  '11  have 
that  too."  He  dropped  his  own  meat  and  sprang 
into  the  water  after  the  shadow.  The  real  meat  fell 
into  the  water  and  floated  away.  —  ^SOP 

THE    QUARREL 

ONE  morning  Tom's  right  foot  said  to  Tom's  left 
foot,  "  Let  me  go  first." 

"  No,"  said  Tom's  left  foot,  "  you  let  me  go  first." 
260 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  No,"  said  Tom's  right  foot,  "  you  let  me  go 
first." 

And  they  began  all  over  again. 

Suddenly  Tom's  left  ear  remarked  to  Tom's  right 
ear,  "  Perhaps  the  silly  things  will  set  out  together." 

"  The  very  thing  to  do,"  cried  both  feet,  and  they 
started  off.  This  left  Tom  without  a  leg  to  stand 
on.  So  he  fell  down  and  bruised  them  both. 

They  were  black  and  blue  for  three  whole  days. 


WHAT   HAPPENED  TO   THE   WAX   DOLL 

THE  wax  doll  went  to  visit  the  rag  doll  and  sat  in  a 
sunny  window,  where  the  people  passing  might 
admire  her. 

"  How  handsome  you  are,"  said  the  rag  doll. 
"  I  wish  I  had  large  blue  eyes  and  red  and  white 
cheeks.  That  white  silk  dress  is  very  becoming." 

The  wax  doll  only  stared  and  smiled. 

"  Towser,  the  dog,  leads  me  a  life  of  it,"  went 
on  the  rag  doll.  She  felt  she  must  make  conversa- 
tion for  her  guest.  "  Why,"  said  she,  "  the  other 
day  he  tore  me  almost  to  pieces,  when  — "  She 
stopped  suddenly.  Something  dreadful  was  happen- 
ing to  the  wax  doll.  Her  face  was  running  down 
on  her  white  silk  dress. 

Just  then  in  came  the  little  girl  who  owned  the 
dolls.  "  Dear,  dear  me,"  said  she,  "  the  wax  doll 
has  melted,"  and  she  threw  her  into  a  corner. 

261 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  After  all,"  said  the  rag  doll  to  herself,  thought- 
fully, "  I  am  not  beautiful,  and  Towser  troubles  me, 
but  I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for." 


THE   ROUTING   OF   TOM 

ONE  morning  Tom  met  the  geese  on  their  way  to 
the  pond,  and  for  once  the  gander  was  not  leading 
them.  Tom  made  sure  of  this.  Gander  had  once 
chased  him  half  a  mile  for  teasing  the  geese. 

"  I  '11  be  master  instead  of  the  gander,"  said  he 
to  the  geese.  "Shoo!  back  you  go."  He  spread 
out  his  arms  to  drive  them  back.  When  they 
turned  to  go,  he  ran  around  in  front  of  them. 
"  Shoo!  forward  you  go,"  said  he.  Once  more  the 
geese  set  off  hopefully  for  the  pond.  "  Shoo !  back 
you  go,"  cried  Tom.  So  he  kept  the  poor  geese 
running  back  and  forth  distracted. 

At  last  one  small  goose  plucked  up  her  courage. 
"  Hiss-s-s-s-s,"  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  long 
neck  toward  Tom.  Instantly  out  went  twenty  necks 
and  twenty  geese  made  for  Tom,  crying,  "  Hiss- 
ss-ss-ss."  Tom  took  to  his  heels. 


MRS.  VIXEN  AND  HER  CUBS  AT  PLAY 

UNDER  a  rock  lay  a  great  brown,  sharp-nosed  crea- 
ture, with  a  white  tip  to  her  brush,  and  round  her 
four  or  five  little  cubs,  the  funniest  fellows  you  ever 

262 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

saw.     It  was  Mrs.  Vixen,  a  mother  fox,  and  her 
children. 

The  mother  lay  on  her  back,  rolling  about,  and 
stretching  out  her  legs  and  head  and  tail  in  the 
bright  sunshine.  The  cubs  jumped  over  her,  and 
ran  around  her,  and  nibbled  her  paws,  and  lugged 
her  about  by  the  tail,  and  she  enjoyed  it  mightily. 

But  one  selfish  little  fellow  put  an  end  to  all  the 
fun.  He  stole  away  from  the  rest  to  a  dead  crow 
close  by,  and  dragged  it  off  to  hide  it,  though  it 
was  nearly  as  big  as  himself.  His  brothers  caught 
him  at  it  and  set  off  after  him  in  full  cry.  Before 
they  knew  it  they  were  seen  by  a  man.  They  left 
the  dead  crow  and  ran  back  to  tell  their  mother. 

Up  jumped  Mrs.  Vixen.  She  caught  the  smallest 
one  up  in  her  mouth,  and  the  rest  toddled  after  her. 
Soon  she  had  them  safe  at  home  in  a  dark  opening 
in  the  rocks.  But  the  fun  was  over  for  that  day. 

—  From  KINGSLEY 


THE    FOOLISH    HOOP 

"  WHY  do  you  strike  me  and  hold  me  in  ?  "  cried 
the  hoop  to  the  stick. 

"  Shall  I  let  you  go?  "    asked  the  stick. 

"Do/'  said  the  hoop;  "I  do  not  need  your 
guidance." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  stick.    And  she  let  him  go. 

Down  the  street  rolled  the  hoop.  Fast  and  faster 
263 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

he  went.  He  could  not  stop  himself.  A  turn  in  the 
flags  headed  him  straight  toward  the  street.  Out  he 
plunged  under  the  wheels  of  a  passing  wagon,  and 
was  crushed  to  pieces. 

HOW   THE    CLOCK   CAME    INTO   THE 
STORY 

ONCE  a  little  round-faced  clock  lived  on  the  desk 
of  a  man  who  wrote  stories.  The  clock  had  a 
chance  to  hear  most  of  the  stories.  For  when 
the  man  finished  a  story  he  usually  called  a  beautiful 
lady  into  the  room  and  read  it  to  her.  The  beautiful 
lady  laughed  at  the  fun  in  the  story  and  the  little 
clock's  face  shone.  But  perhaps  that  is  what  a  clean 
little  clock's  face  always  does. 

One  day  the  man  read  from  the  story,  "  The 
prince  and  the  princess  were  married  just  as  the 
clock  struck  "  —  "  One !  "  rang  the  little  clock.  Its 
heart  almost  stopped  beating;  it  had  not  meant  to 
interrupt  the  story. 

The  beautiful  lady  cried,  "  Why,  the  clock  knows 
the  story/'  But  she  laughed  as  she  said  it. 

What  do  you  think  about  it  ? 

BABY   GOES    ON   A   VOYAGE 

THE  other  day  baby  went  on  a  voyage  on  the  good 
ship  Hands  and  Knees.  She  crept  out  into  the  hall 
so  softly  that  mother  did  not  hear  her  go. 

264 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

Out  there  was  the  cuckoo  clock  that  said 
"  R-r-r-r-."  Baby  stopped  and  looked  up  at  it.  A 
door  in  the  clock  opened,  and  out  came  a  little  bird 
who  cried,  "  Cuck-oo,  cuck-oo,  cuck-oo."  In  he 
went  again  and  the  door  shut. 

Baby  gurgled  with  glee.  "  I  tee  oo,"  she  cried. 
She  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  little  bird  to  come  out 
and  play  again. 

But  mother  found  her,  and  carried  her  back  on 
the  good  ship  Mother's  Arms. 


THE    RUNAWAYS 

ONE  day  four  little  white  pigs  and  three  little  white 
geese  met  together  near  Rover's  kennel.  But  they 
were  so  full  of  themselves  that  they  did  not  notice 
where  they  were. 

"  We  stole  out  while  Mother  Sow  was  dozing 
after  dinner,"  screamed  the  little  pigs.  They 
laughed  so  much  they  rolled  on  the  ground. 

;<  We  stole  out  while  Mother  Goose  was  gabbling 
with  a  neighbor/'  giggled  the  little  geese.  And 
they  hugged  their  sides  to  think  how  clever  they 
were. 

"What's  this!  what's  this!"  growled  Rover, 
coming  to  the  door  of  his  kennel. 

The  pigs  squealed  with  fright  and  the  geese 
clacked  in  terror.  All  took  to  their  heels,  back  to 
their  mothers. 

265 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 


THE    NAIL 

A  MERCHANT  had  done  good  business  at  the  fair; 
he  had  sold  his  wares,  and  filled  his  bag  with  gold 
and  silver.  Then  he  set  out  at  once  on  his  journey 
home,  for  he  wished  to  be  in  his  own  house  before 
night.  He  packed  his  bag  with  the  money  on  his 
horse,  and  rode  away. 

At  noon  he  rested  in  a  town ;  when  he  wanted  to 
go  on,  the  stable-boy  brought  out  his  horse,  and 
said,  — 

"  A  nail  is  wanting,  sir,  in  the  shoe  of  its  left 
hind  foot." 

"Let  it  be  wanting,"  answered  the  merchant; 
"  the  shoe  will  stay  on  for  the  six  miles  I  have  still 
to  go.  I  am  in  a  hurry."  In  the  afternoon,  when 
he  once  more  got  down  and  had  his  horse  fed,  the 
stable-boy  went  into  the  room  to  him,  and  said,  — 

"  Sir,  a  shoe  is  wanting  from  your  horse's  left 
hind  foot.  Shall  I  take  him  to  the  blacksmith?  " 

"Let  it  still  be  wanting,"  said  the  man;  "the 
horse  can  very  well  hold  out  for  a  couple  of  miles 
more.  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

He  rode  forth,  but  before  long  the  horse  began  to 
limp.  It  had  not  limped  long  before  it  began  to 
stumble,  and  it  had  not  stumbled  long  before  it  fell 
down  and  broke  its  leg.  The  merchant  had  to  leave 
the  horse  where  it  was,  and  unstrap  the  bag,  take 

266 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

it  on  his  back,  and  go  home  on  foot.  And  he  did 
not  get  there  until  quite  late  at  night. 

"  That  unlucky  nail,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  has 
made  all  this  trouble." 

Make  haste  slowly.  —  OLD  TALE 


THE    SOAP   BUBBLES 

ANNA  MARY  invited  Dan,  her  dog,  into  the  yard  to 
see  her  make  soap  bubbles.  She  blew  out  a  beauti- 
ful one  shining  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow. 

Dan  watched  it  as  it  floated  on  the  air.  "  What 
can  the  lovely  thing  be?"  thought  he  to  himself. 
It  passed  close  to  him.  He  put  out  his  paw  to  touch 
it.  The  delicate  bubble  was  gone.  There  was  noth- 
ing but  a  wet  spot  on  Dan's  inquisitive  nose. 

"  Goosy  Dan,"  said  Anna  Mary,  scolding  him, 
"  lovely  moons  floating  in  the  air  are  not  to  be 
touched  by  clumsy  paws." 

She  blew  the  next  one  high  above  Dan's  head. 

THE    PEACOCK'S   TAIL 

THE  peacock  pretended  not  to  see  anyone.  He 
strutted  about  picking  up  corn.  But  he  must  have 
glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  every  time  he 
stooped  for  another  kernel.  For  when  a  crowd  had 
gathered  he  left  off  eating  and  faced  about  in  front 
of  the  people. 

267 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

He  swelled  out  his  chest  till  he  could  not  see  his 
ugly  feet.  Out  he  spread  slowly  his  shining  blue 
and  green  tail  with  its  hundreds  of  eyes.  It  came 
up  around  his  head  like  a  gorgeous  frame. 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls  in  the  crowd  held 
their  breath  until  it  came  out  in  a  great  "  Ah !  " 
The  peacock  let  them  look  a  whole  minute.  Then 
he  lowered  his  tail  and  strutted  away. 


HOW   THE    ROOSTER   WAS    DECEIVED 

THE  rooster  \vith  the  reddest  comb  perched  himself 
up  on  the  gate-post  to  crow.  As  he  stretched  his 
neck  he  caught  sight  of  another  rooster  higher  up 
on  the  barn. 

"  I  '11  have  no  one  in  this  barnyard  higher  than 
I,"  said  he;  "I  am  master  here."  And  he  flew  up 
at  the  rooster.  But  his  wings  were  so  short  that 
he  barely  reached  the  edge  of  the  roof.  Had  he 
fallen  he  would  have  been  disgraced  before  all  the 
fowls  in  the  barnyard.  He  was  so  furious  at  the 
thought  that  he  rushed  up  the  sloping  roof  and 
pecked  at  the  rooster  savagely.  The  rooster  never 
budged. 

"  Ha,  ha,  silly  cockscomb !  "  screamed  Poll,  the 
parrot,  shaking  with  laughter.  "  It  serves  you 
right.  Did  you  hurt  your  beak  ?  He  is  n't  a  live 
rooster  at  all.  He  's  only  a  weathervane." 

268 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

THE    SHOES   THAT   WALKED    MOST 

THE  cobbler  sat  at  his  bench.  The  shoes  stood  in 
a  row  before  him. 

"  Which  shall  I  mend  first?"  thought  he  to 
himself.  "I  know,"  he  said  aloud;  "  I  '11  begin 
with  whichever  pair  has  walked  most." 

At  this  out  toddled  baby's  shoes. 

The  cobbler  laughed  at  them.  "  Why,"  said  he, 
"  baby  has  been  in  the  world  only  two  years  at  most. 
You  can't  have  walked  far  yet." 

"  Well,"  said  the  shoe  for  the  right  foot,  "  baby's 
mother  says  we  never  stop  going  until  she  takes  us 
off  at  night.  We  notice  that  grown  people  sit  down 
a  great  deal." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  cobbler,  "  have  your  way." 

So  he  waxed  his  thread  and  sewed  a  patch  on  each 
small  sole. 

WHAT   O'CLOCK? 

MARY  and  Anna  Jane  were  playing  in  the  fields. 
Suddenly  Mary  stopped  and  said,  "  I  wonder  what 
time  it  is.  Mother  said  we  should  go  home  at  four 
o'clock." 

A  dandelion  spoke  up  politely.  "  My  head  will 
tell  you  what  o'clock  it  is,"  said  he.  "  Blow  it  off, 
and,  as  you  blow,  count." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  said  Anna  Jane.  Mary 
was  too  much  astonished  to  speak. 

269 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

Anna  Jane  blew  once.     "  One  o'clock,"  said  she. 

"  Go  on,"  cried  the  dandelion.  "  My  head  is  at 
your  service." 

Anna  Jane  went  on  blowing  and  counting. 
"  Two  o'clock,  three  o'clock,  four  o'clock."  The 
whole  head  was  off. 

'  Thank  you,  dandelion,"  said  Anna  Jane,  al- 
though she  was  not  sure  wrhether  the  dandelion 
could  hear  without  his  head.  u  It's  .time  for  us 
to  be  going  home." 

So  Anna  Jane  and  Mary  went  home  at  the  right 
time. 

THE    WONDERFUL    CHANGE 

IT  was  time  for  the  caterpillar  to  shut  himself  in 
and  prepare  for  a  new  life.  So  he  chose  a  low 
branch  and  began  spinning  his  cocoon  about  him. 
He  made  it  firm  and  strong,  so  that  no  one  should 
break  through  it  and  disturb  him.  It  wrapped 
him  about  like  a  shroud.  The  caterpillar  lay  dowrn 
in  it  and  waited. 

Days  passed  and  a  new  day  came.  The  cater- 
pillar burst  from  the  cocoon,  changed  most  glori- 
ously; no  longer  a  crawling  worm,  but  a  splendid 
butterfly  with  wings.  At  first  he  tried  his  wings 
timidly.  Soon  he  spread  them  wide  and  flew  up 
into  the  sunshine. 

Grow7n  people  as  wrell  as  little  children  wondered 
at  the  change,  and  felt  joy  in  it. 

270 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

HOW   NAN   AND   THE    MOON    WENT    FOR 
A   WALK 

ONE  evening  as  Nan  started  out  for  a  walk  the 
white  moon  in  the  sky  went  before  her. 

"  Why,  the  moon  is  coming,  too,"  said  Nan,  and 
she  stood  still,  she  was  so  surprised.  The  white 
moon  stood  still  too.  Nan  walked  on  faster.  The 
white  moon  went  faster  before  her.  At  the  corner 
Nan  turned  to  go  home.  Now  the  white  moon  was 
behind,  but  it  followed  her  even  to  the  door.  Nan 
looked  up  at  it  before  going  in,  and  the  white  moon 
looked  down  at  Nan. 

That  night  before  she  jumped  into  bed  Nan 
looked  out  of  the  window.  There  in  the  starry 
sky  was  the  moon  gazing  down  at  her. 

"  Were  you  waiting  for  me  all  this  time,  moon?  " 
asked  Nan.  "  I  can't  come  out  until  to-morrow 
night.  We  '11  have  another  walk  then." 

And  they  did. 

WHAT    CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS    DID 

A  GREAT  many  years  ago  in  far-off  Italy  lived  Chris- 
topher Columbus.  He  did  a  wonderful  thing.  He 
and  some  companions  and  sailors  set  out  in  three 
small  ships  to  cross  the  great  wide  ocean.  The 
huge  waves  tossed  the  ships  about  and  came  up 
over  their  bows.  The  sailors  were  so  terrified  they 

271 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

begged  Columbus  to  turn  back.  But  he  was  too 
brave  to  do  that.  He  kept  on  till  he  came  to  a  new 
country.  It  was  America,  our  country.  Then  he 
and  all  with  him  knelt  on  the  shore  and  gave  thanks 
to  God. 


WHAT   THE    MOON    SAW 

"  YESTERDAY,"  said  the  Moon  to  me,  "  I  looked 
down  into  a  small  yard.  There  sat  a  clucking  hen 
with  eleven  chicks,  and  a  pretty  little  girl  was  run- 
ning and  jumping  around  them.  The  poor  hen 
did  n't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  She  screamed 
and  spread  out  her  wings  over  her  brood.  The 
noise  brought  the  girl's  father  out.  He  scolded  his 
daughter  and  sent  her  into  the  house.  I  glided  on 
and  thought  no  more  about  it. 

"  But  this  evening,  only  a  few  minutes  ago,  I 
looked  down  into  the  same  yard.  The  hen  and  her 
chicks  had  gone  to  roost.  Everything  was  quiet. 
Out  came  the  little  girl,  crept  to  the  hen-house, 
pushed  back  the  bolt,  and  slipped  in.  The  hen  and 
chicks  cried  out  at  once  and  came  fluttering  down 
from  their  perches.  I  saw  it  all,  for  I  looked 
through  a  hole  in  the  hen-house  wall.  I  was  angry 
with  the  obstinate  child.  And  so  was  her  father. 
He  came  out  and  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"  '  What  are  you  about  ?  '    he  asked. 

"  The  little  girl  wept  and  sobbed.  '  I  wanted  to 
272 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

kiss  the  hen  and  beg  her  pardon  for  frightening  her 
yesterday,  but  she  does  not  understand/' 

"  '  I  do  now/  said  her  father.     And  he  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead  and  on  the  mouth  and  on  the 
eyes.    '  You  are  my  own  sweet  little  daughter.    The 
hen  will  understand  best  if  you  let  her  alone.' ' 
—  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


THE   ELF   WHO    STAYED   OUT   TOO    LATE 

IN  a  beautiful  rose  there  dwelt  a  little  elf.  With 
a  fairy  microscope  you  could  see  his  wings  reaching 
from  his  shoulders  to  his  feet.  Without  it  you 
could  n't  see  him  at  all. 

One  day  when  he  went  out  into  the  sunshine  to 
play  he  had  such  fun  that  he  forgot  all  about  get- 
ting home  in  time.  He  flew  from  flower  to  flower. 
He  danced  on  the  wings  of  the  passing  butterfly. 
Best  of  all,  he  measured  how  many  steps  it  would 
take  to  cross  all  the  roads  made  of  veins  on  the 
geranium  leaf. 

It  was  this  that  delayed  him  so  long.  Before 
he  knew  it  the  sun  was  down,  dewdrops  sprinkled 
the  leaf,  and  the  night  began  to  darken.  The  poor 
little  elf  was  very  much  frightened.  He  began  to 
shiver,  too,  with  the  cold.  Indeed,  he  grew  so 
numb  that  he  could  hardly  spread  his  wings  to  fly 
back  to  the  rosebush.  But  he  managed  it. 

273 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

The  beautiful  rose  was  just  closing  her  petals  for 
the  night.     In  he  dived  under  the  warm  leaves. 


THE    BOLD    WEED 

THE  weed  smelled  rank  to  heaven.  But  she  looked 
out  at  everyone  as  bold  as  brass. 

"  Hold  up  your  heads,"  she  cried  to  the  violets. 
"  Push  yourselves  forward  where  people  may  see 
you." 

But  the  violets  held  down  their  heads  modestly. 

Along  came  Lucy  looking  for  some  flowers. 
"  Ugh !  what  a  rank  smell  that  weed  has !  "  she  cried. 
She  plucked  it  up  by  the  root  and  threw  it  on  a 
heap  of  rubbish.  But  she  gathered  a  great  bunch 
of  the  dewy  violets  for  her  grandmother's  birthday. 


ODDS   AND    ENDS 

THERE  was  once  on  a  time  a  maiden  who  was  pretty 
but  very  lazy  and  wasteful.  When  a  little  knot 
came  in  the  flax  she  was  spinning,  she  at  once  pulled 
out  a  whole  heap  of  it  and  threw  it  away.  Her 
servant  gathered  up  the  bits  of  flax  that  had  been 
thrown  away,  cleaned  them,  spun  them,  and  wove 
them  into  a  piece  of  fine  linen.  Out  of  this  she 
made  herself  a  beautiful  dress. 

Well,  the  maiden  was  to  be  married.     On  the  eve 
274 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

of  the  wedding  the  servant  was  dancing  about  in 
the  pretty  dress  she  had  made.  The  bride  said  to 
the  bridegroom,  "  How  that  girl  jumps  about 
dressed  in  my  odds  and  ends!"  The  bridegroom 
asked  the  bride  what  she  meant.  Then  she  told  him 
that  the  servant  was  wearing  a  dress  made  of  the 
flax  she  had  thrown  away.  When  the  bridegroom 
heard  that,  he  knew  how  lazy  and  wasteful  she  was. 
"  The  other  girl  is  the  wife  for  me,"  said  he. 
And  he  married  the  other  girl  in  the  very  dress 
she  had  made  out  of  the  odds  and  ends. 

—  FOLK  TALE 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN'S    KINDNESS 

ONE  day  as  Abraham  Lincoln  rode  along  on  his 
horse  he  saw  a  pig  struggling  to  keep  herself  from 
sinking  into  a  deep  place  filled  with  mud.  The  poor 
thing  was  squealing  in  terror,  because  the  mud  was 
sucking  her  in. 

At  first  Lincoln  rode  by  without  stopping.  But 
his  kind  heart  could  not  forget  the  pig.  He  turned 
back,  got  down  from  his  horse,  and  drew  the  pig 
out  of  the  mud. 


THE    ANT    AND    THE    GRASSHOPPER 

THERE  was  once  a  foolish  little  grasshopper  that 
spent    all    her    time    playing.      Through    the    long 

275 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

summer  and  autumn  she  did  nothing  but  sing  from 
morning  till  night.  So  when  winter  came  and  the 
snow  covered  the  ground,  she  had  n't  a  morsel  of 
food  stored  away  in  her  house. 

Soon  she  was  so  faint  with  hunger  that  she 
begged  her  neighbor,  the  ant,  to  give  her  something 
to  eat.  "I  am  starving,"  she  said;  "  give  me  a 
grain  of  wheat/' 

t(  Why  did  you  not  save  some  grain  at  harvest 
time  ?  "  asked  the  ant.  "  There  was  plenty  to  be 
had.  What  were  you  doing?" 

"  I  was  singing,"  answered  the  grasshopper. 
"  I  had  no  time  for  work." 

"  Hoity  toity!  "  cried  the  ant;  "  if  you  sang  all 
summer  you  must  dance  hungry  to  bed  in  winter." 


THE    DONKEY   AND   THE    MULE 

A  DONKEY  and  a  mule  set  out  with  their  master  on 
a  long  journey.     Each  animal  carried  a  load. 

As  he  climbed  the  steep  path  up  a  mountain  the 
donkey  felt  his  load  heavier  than  he  could  bear. 
He  begged  the  mule  to  help  him.  "  Help  me, 
brother/'  he  cried,  "  or  I  shall  drop."  But  the 
mule  pretended  not  to  hear.  After  struggling  along 
a  little  farther  the  poor  donkey  fell  dead. 

The  master  now  placed  the  donkey's  load  on  the 
mule,  giving  him  two  loads  to  carry.  And  on  top 
of  both  he  piled  the  donkey. 

276 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  It  serves  me  right/'  said  the  mule  to  himself; 
"  had  I  helped  the  donkey  I  should  not  now  be  car- 
rying his  burden." 


WHY   THE    MAGPIE'S    NEST    IS    BADLY 
MADE 

ONCE  on  a  time,  when  the  world  was  very  young, 
the  magpie  was  the  only  bird  that  did  not  know  how 
to  build  a  nest.  She  told  her  trouble  to  the  other 
birds  and  they  all  met  to  teach  her. 

"  Place  that  stick  there,"  said  the  blackbird.  He 
flew  over  and  did  it  for  her  himself. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  magpie,  "  I  knew  that  before." 

"  Place  this  stick  here,"  said  the  thrush,  placing 
it  for  her. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  magpie,  "  I  knew  that  before." 

The  wren  and  the  robin,  the  goldfinch  and  the 
chaffinch,  the  lark  and  the  swallow,  and  many  other 
birds  went  on  showing  her  how  to  build  the  nest. 
As  each  bit  was  added,  she  said,  "  Oh,  I  knew  that 
before." 

At  last,  when  the  nest  was  only  half  finished,  the 
birds  lost  patience  with  the  conceited  empty-head. 

"  Well,  Mistress  Mag,"  cried  they,  flying  away, 
"  as  you  know  all  about  it,  you  may  e'en  finish  the 
nest  yourself." 

That  is  the  reason  the  magpie's  nest  is  so  badly 
made.  — FOLK  TALE 

277 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

HOW    BUTTERFLIES    CAME 

ONE  day  the  flowers  flew  off  their  stalks  high  into 
the  air.  They  waved  their  leaves  for  wings.  Be- 
cause they  behaved  themselves  so  well  the  fairies 
let  them  fly  again  and  again,  and  they  no  longer 
had  to  sit  still  on  their  stalks  and  remain  home  from 
morning  till  night.  So  by  and  by  their  leaves  became 
wings.  The  flowers  had  changed  into  butterflies, 
red,  yellow,  and  white. 

—  From  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


THE    MONKEY    DANCES 

THE  organ-grinder  called  out  to  the  monkey  seated 
on  his  shoulder,  "  Dance  for  the  children,  Jacko, 
and  I  will  play." 

Jacko  swung  himself  lightly  to  the  sidewalk, 
pulled  off  his  velvet  cap,  and  bowed  low.  Then  he 
put  the  cap  on  again,  pressing  it  down  firmly  on  his 
head,  and  held  out  his  little  red  skirt  with  his  paws. 
"  Begin,"  cried  his  master.  And  Jacko  began  to 
step  and  turn  and  slide  in  time  to  the  music. 

The  children  clapped  their  hands.  Faster  and 
faster  went  the  music  and  faster  and  faster  went 
Jacko.  At  last  he  spun  round  and  round  until  he 
looked  like  a  red  top.  The  music  stopped  suddenly. 
Jacko  stood  motionless  on  the  very  tip  of  his  toes. 
After  this  he  pulled  off  his  cap  and  bowed  low. 

278 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  Bravo,  Jacko,"  cried  the  children,  and  each 
threw  a  penny  into  his  cap  for  food  for  himself 
and  his  master. 


AN   APRIL   FOOL    STORY 

ONE  day  all  the  rabbits  were  close  together  near  a 
back  fence,  sitting  up  on  their  haunches.  The  rab- 
bit in  the  middle  was  telling  the  others  a  story.  It 
was  about  a  rabbit. 

"  So/'  said  he,  going  on  with  the  story,  "  when- 
ever the  little  rabbit  was  hungry  all  he  had  to  say 
was 

*  Garden  fairy,  sweet, 
Some  lettuce  I  'd  eat.' 

And  straightway  a  whole  head  of  lettuce  would 
grow  up  before  him." 

"  Oh,  my/'  cried  all  the  rabbits  together,  "  how 
I  wish  that  would  happen  to  me!  "  And  story-teller 
and  all  turned  a  somersault  at  the  very  thought  of 
it.  After  this  they  sat  up  again  to  hear  the  rest 
of  the  story. 

But  their  pink  eyes  almost  burst  out  of  their 
heads  and  their  ears  stood  straight  up  toward  the 
sky.  There  in  front  of  each  was  a  large  leaf  of 
lettuce. 

"  Why,  the  story  's  coming  true/1  cried  the  story- 

279 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

teller,  and  he  tasted  the  lettuce.  "  Yes,"  said  he, 
"  this  is  real  lettuce." 

The  others  were  sure  of  it.  They  were  eating 
theirs  as  fast  as  they  could. 

Now  the  dog,  who  kept  the  yard,  had  n't  turned 
a  somersault,  so  he  knew  about  it.  He  saw  Fred, 
hiding  behind  the  fence,  throw  down  the  lettuce 
leaves. 

"  Ha,  ha,"  he  barked,  "  the  silly  things  don't 
know  that  to-day  is  April  Fool's  Day.  Of  course," 
said  he,  thoughtfully,  "  they  have  eaten  juicy  let- 
tuce leaves.  That 's  not  foolish.  Fred  and  I  have 
eaten  nothing." 

"  That  story  had  a  happy  ending,"  said  the  rab- 
bits, as  they  scampered  off  to  play. 

Which  do  you  think  was  April-fooled? 


THE    FOOLISH    PUPPIES 

THE  biggest  puppy  said  one  day  to  the  little  pup- 
pies, "  Let  us  jump  up  on  the  table  and  enjoy  our- 
selves. There  are  plenty  of  bread-crumbs  on  it. 
Our  mistress  has  gone  out  to  pay  some  visits." 

The  little  dogs  said,  "  No,  no,  no,  we  will  not 
go.  If  our  mistress  should  hear  of  it  she  would 
beat  us." 

"  She  will  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  the  other; 
"  come  on,  the  crumbs  are  fresh  and  sweet." 

280 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  Nay,  nay,  we  must  let  them  alone.  We  must 
not  go,"  said  the  little  pups  again. 

But  the  big  one  gave  them  no  peace  until  at  last 
they  went,  and  got  up  on  the  table,  and  ate  up  the 
bread-crumbs  with  all  their  might. 

While  they  were  at  it  a  shadow  of  someone  pass- 
ing the  window  fell  on  the  table.  The  big  pup  knew 
what  it  meant.  He  jumped  down  and  made  off. 
But  the  little  pups  were  caught.  Their  mistress 
seized  a  stick  and  whipped  them  out  of  the  room. 

Outside  the  little  pups  said  to  the  big  pup,  "  Dost, 
dost,  dost,  dost  thou  see?  " 

But  the  mean  cur  gave  them  no  satisfaction. 
"  Did  n't,  did  n't,  did  n't  you  expect  it?  "  said  he. 

So  they  had  to  grin  and  bear  it,  and  make  up  their 
minds  to  be  wiser  the  next  time. 


A   GOLDEN    STORY 

THERE  was  once  a  buttercup  shining  in  the  green 
grass.  "  You  're  a  little  golden  sun  tfiat  turns 
everything  into  gold,"  said  a  child  who  saw  it; 
"  perhaps  you  can  tell  a  golden  story." 

And  would  you  believe  it?  The  buttercup  began 
without  waiting  a  single  moment :  "A  certain  old 
grandmother  sits  out  of  doors  every  afternoon  in 
her  chair.  The  hands  resting  in  her  lap  are  wrin- 
kled and  so  is  her  face,  and  her  hair  is  as  white  as 
the  driven  snow.  All  of  a  sudden  two  small 

281 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

smooth  hands  steal  round  from  the  back  of  her 
chair  and  cover  her  eyes.  And  grandmother  im- 
mediately says,  *  It 's  my  sweet  grandchild ;  I  'm 
sure  of  it,  because  she  never  fails  to  visit  me/  and 
she  reaches  up  to  touch  a  golden  head." 

"  Why,  the  story  's  about  me,"  cried  the  little 
girl;  "  grandmother's  guess  is  never  wrong/' 

But  the  buttercup  went  on  without  pretending  to 
hear.  '  Then  the  child  runs  around  in  front  of 
the  chair  and  kisses  her  old  grandmother.  There 
is  gold  in  that  kiss,  I  am  certain/'  said  the  butter- 
cup, "  because  it  leaves  a  mark  of  itself  on  grand- 
mother's face;  it  smoothes  out  the  wrinkles  and  it 
makes  her  eyes  shine  with  joy. 

'That's  my  golden  story,"  said  the  buttercup; 
"  every  child  may  go  home  and  play  it." 

And  the  little  child  was  happy  that  what  she  did 
had  been  put  into  a  golden  story. 

—  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


HOW  THE   CLOCKS    PLAYED    SCHOOL 

THREE  little  clocks  sat  in  a  row  on  the  mantelpiece. 
The  servant  had  put  them  there  to  wash  their  faces, 
but  they  made  believe  they  had  come  to  school. 
The  tall  grandfather  clock  from  the  hall  was  the 
teacher.  The  servant  had  wheeled  him  in  to  sweep 
behind  him,  but  he  too  made  believe  he  had  come 
to  school. 

282 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

"  Be  sure."  said  Grandfather  Clock  to  his 
scholars,  "  that  you  tell  the  right  time.  Everyone 
in  the  house  looks  to  you  for  the  time  to  get  up, 
the  time  to  eat,  the  time  to  work,  the  time  to  play, 
and  the  time  to  sleep.  Is  there  any  little  clock  here 
who  cannot  tell  time?  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
move  your  hands  around  your  face.  When  it  is 
time  to  strike  the  hour,  be  sure  your  large  hand  is  at 
twelve,  and  your  small  hand  at  the  hour.  It  is  very 
easy." 

"Is  it,  indeed!"  said  the  smallest  clock;  "how 
about  it  when  people  forget  to  wind  us  up?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  other  two  little  clocks, 
"how  about  that?" 

"Silence,"  cried  Grandfather  Clock,  sternly; 
"  that  is  a  saucy  way  for  little  clocks  to  talk." 

At  this  moment  the  servant  began  to  wheel 
Grandfather  Clock  back  into  the  hall. 

"  School  is  out,"  he  said. 

So  that  was  the  end  of  it. 


HOW   MOTHER  TABBY   PLAYED  WITH 
HER    KITTENS 

ONCE  three  small  black  kittens  begged  their  mother 
to  play  with  them.  Mother  Tabby  said  nothing,  but 
gave  her  tail  a  sly  wag  to  one  side.  The  kittens 
started  back  and  looked  at  it.  Mother  Tabby 
whisked  it  over  to  the  other  side. 

283 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

"  It  is  alive,"  thought  the  kittens.  They  arched 
their  backs,  and  the  smallest  kitten  put  out  his  paw 
to  make  it  move  again.  Whack!  went  Mother 
Tabby's  tail  on  his  nose.  The  little  kitten  scam- 
pered off. 

But  he  was  back  again  in  a  minute,  and  the  fun 
kept  up  until  Mother  Tabby  walked  off  as  if  to  say, 
"  It  is  time  for  little  kittens  to  be  in  bed." 

THE   JOKE 

LAST  Hallowe'en  a  saucy  red  apple  played  a  joke. 
When  little  Tom  ducked  for  him  he  bobbed  back- 
ward and  forward  so  dizzily  that  little  Tom  lost  his 
balance  and  toppled  into  the  tub.  The  saucy  red 
apple  laughed  as  loudly  as  any  apple  can  laugh. 

But  what  was  that  he  heard  Tom's  big  brother 
saying?  The  big  brother  had  pulled  Tom  out  of 
the  water  before  you  could  say  "  Jack  Robinson," 
and  Tom  was  dripping  wet  and  bawling  with  fright. 
What  did  the  saucy  red  apple  hear?  It  was  Tom's 
big  brother  saying,  "  Here,  Tom,  is  a  little  red 
apple  for  you."  And  he  handed  the  saucy  red  apple 
to  Tom. 

The  saucy  red  apple  stopped  laughing  suddenly, 
for  he  found  himself  between  little  Tom's  sharp 
teeth. 

So  Tom  had  the  best  of  the  joke  after  all,  had  n't 
he? 

284 


SOME  VERY  SHORT  STORIES 

THE    SISTERS 

"  You  dirty  black  thing,"  cried  the  diamond  to  the 
coal,  "  do  not  come  near  me." 

"  I  will  not  indeed/'  said  the  coal;  "  you  are  too 
beautiful  for  the  likes  of  me.  I  might  dim  your 
brilliance." 

When  she  heard  this  answer,  the  proud  diamond 
was  ashamed  of  herself.  "  Press  close  to  me/'  she 
said,  "  you  are  my  own  sister.  I  am  only  more 
highly  polished." 


THE    LION  AND   THE    SHEPHERD 

ONCE  a  lion  roaming  through  the  forest  trod  on  a 
thorn  and  it  stuck  in  his  foot.  In  great  pain  he 
limped  out  to  a  shepherd  and  looked  up  at  him  be- 
seechingly. The  shepherd  gently  drew  out  the 
thorn.  The  lion  fawned  upon  him  and  licked  his 
hand  to  thank  him. 

Not  long  after  the  shepherd  was  blamed  for  a 
wrong  he  had  not  done.  The  king  said  he  must 
die.  "  Throw  him  to  the  lions  and  let  him  be 
torn  to  pieces,"  commanded  the  king. 

The  king's  officers  seized  the  poor  shepherd  and 
threw  him  into  the  arena,  before  the  lion's  cage. 
Out  stalked  a  lion.  It  was  the  very  one  the  shep- 
herd had  helped.  And  lo!  instead  of  tearing  the 

285 


STORIES  AND  STORY-TELLING 

shepherd  to  pieces  the  noble  beast  fawned  upon  him 
and  licked  his  hand. 

The  king  was  amazed.  He  ordered  the  shepherd 
to  tell  him  what  it  all  meant.  When  he  heard  he 
let  the  shepherd  go  back  to  his  sheep  and  the  lion 
back  to  the  free  forest. 


WHAT    HAPPENED   TO   THE    BALLOON 

ONE  night  a  gorgeous  balloon  when  his  candle  was 
lighted  found  himself  beside  a  dull  brown  acorn. 

"  What  a  stupid  dolt  you  are  to  stay  here  where 
you  cannot  be  seen !  "  he  cried,  as  someone  sent  him 
up  into  the  air. 

Higher  and  higher  he  mounted  above  the  roofs 
of  the  houses.  "  Perhaps  he  will  reach  the  stars/' 
said  the  acorn,  gazing  up  after  him. 

Just  then  the  balloon  turned  giddy  with  pride. 
He  reeled,  caught  fire,  and  his  brief  splendor  was 
over. 

Years  after,  in  the  spot  where  the  acorn  had 
lain  that  night,  a  great  oak  stood  up  toward  heaven 
and  spread  his  branches  wide  over  the  earth. 

(0 

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286 


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